


DA028: Patchwork

by Rhion



Series: Pieces of Me [3]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the total far exceeds the sum of the parts, something infinitely beautiful can be created from bits and pieces of random things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pieces of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue
> 
>  
> 
> AN: :big giant sigh: Writing smexings when one's husband continuously interrupts is sort of... difficult. He is supposed to be distracted by the Daily Show and Colbert Report – not constantly popping his head around the corner and quoting whatever has him in stitches, every five minutes. Happy as I am that he wishes to communicate with me, his time with the internet tv stuff is supposed to translate into “Don't bother the wife” time. Hence I'm working on _Patchwork_ instead of _Murder_. I had wanted to wait to work on _Patchwork_ until I had a few more chapters of _Murder_ done, rather than just plotting those chapters out in my head, but it's practically impossible to work on something as intense as fight scenes, sex scenes etc and maintain a flow and most importantly a _purpose_ to those scenes instead of random rambling when someone plops down next to you for five seconds, jabbers about how funny and smart Jon Stuart is and then ask questions about what I'm writing. There's a saying that comes to mind about women “When a woman says she wants two kids, it means she wants to be married and also have a child”. This is quite true. It's cute, but annoying after awhile.
> 
> Also, this is going to be longer, but unlike the prior two pieces, I won't be separating them. _Pieces, Scraps_ and _Patchwork_ can each stand alone, but are meant to be read in order. And since _Patchwork_ will be longer, it is separated into four sections.
> 
> Beta’d as per usual by the awesomesauce - Amku.

Staring down at the paper, Lyna had to pick out the words slowly. It had been a long time since she had last read Ferelden, now more used to Tevinter and Antivan. Even so her reading skills were far better than when Zevran had initially taken to teaching her how to read and write shortly after they first met. No one other than him had noticed that she could barely read, his skills of observation missing nothing, and so Zevran had sat her down in the middle of one of their sparring sessions to draw letters in the dirt. From there on the assassin had taken it upon himself to ensure she depended on no one for reading letters, and no longer had to hide behind excuses when going through libraries in search of pertinent information. Teacher, friend, confidant and protector, the man who was once sent to kill her proved to be the one true gem in her life.

“Such a pensive frown, may I hazard a guess as to what has placed it there?” The assassin hooked his foot around a chair leg, dragging it close enough to flop into. “That missive, it appears quite official, does it not? Perhaps it is from a former companion?” he said as he stretched his legs out and used her lap as a footrest, hands clasped over his stomach.

Shooting him an annoyed glance, Lyna pinched one of his toes – which were long, elegant and as tan as the rest of him. “Stop pretending like you don't already know who it's from.”

“Hmm... as I recall there was a Ferelden ship flying official colors in the harbor last night,” he replied, making a show of deducing who sent the letter. “And there was some news recently about the King insisting on a stronger Grey Warden presence to fight those roving bands of darkspawn that seem to have overstayed their welcome.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, well can't have the King of Ferelden off chasing darkspawn himself, as he's the only Warden they have currently.”

“To your knowledge, _amora_ , to your knowledge,” he said, waggling a finger like an old lady. “I find it hard to believe that the Wardens would not have sent some sort of reinforcements to bolster their numbers in Ferelden. Not even Alistair is so foolish as to turn away such help, I think.”

With a curse, Lyna tossed the letter onto the table between them, “If I'm reading that drivel correctly, and I might not be, its wording is as bad as an Orlesian limerick, my presence as 'Warden Commander' is 'requested' to do my duty. Like fighting the Archdemon wasn't enough? As if slaving away for thankless idiots for two years, fighting and bleeding wasn't enough for them? Am I still a slave, Zev?”

“We are all slaves, my dear.” After clearing his throat the Antivan pursed his lips. “For you it is the chains of duty, no matter that you have already given everything for it and would be well justified in simply ignoring this -” he tapped the parchment, “and going about your own way.”

Angry, Lyna rose, shoving her friend's feet from her lap so she could pace. They had finally made a life of some sort for themselves in Antiva after traveling from one end of Thedas to the other. And like she was some dog to be commanded, she was told to throw everything that she struggled so hard to make for herself away. It was like she was nothing once more.

She muttered darkly, striding from one end of their small rented corner apartment to the other, “Just an elf to be ordered around, aren't I?”

“You are hardly 'just' anything, _amora_ ,” Zevran's voice was mild, the weight of his gaze an easy and familiar thing to bear.

Terracotta tiles were cold under her feet, the fire baked umber throwing back a pleasant chill in the Antivan heat. Glancing around at the place that had been the first 'home' she had since she left the Alienage, Lyna despaired. The whitewashed walls had just recently been adorned with a few paintings, simple water colors that she had made, mostly of the sea and sunsets, along with one or two masks that Zevran had collected. In the other room was a bed, large enough for two elves, piled with several pillows and linen sheets. A couple trunks held their possessions, and in what they had made the bedroom, a small oven stood that provided heat on the occasionally chill nights. Such simple furnishings left most of the floorspace open in the two room flat, except the luxury of a weapons rack and armor stands. This was _home_ and again, because of a _shemlin_ , she was ordered to leave the place she called 'hers'.

She turned to her companion. “Burn it.”

His eyebrows climbed high on his forehead, and Zevran gave a low whistle. “I think that destroying this building in a conflagration, while lovely and entertaining, would be what I consider a secondary course of action.”

Snatching up the evil parchment, Lyna waved it about. “You know what I meant.”

“Are you sure?” All traces of levity were gone from his countenance and he sat up straight, expression intense. “It is a thing that cannot be undone.”

“We have other obligations Zevran. There are contracts we have to honor,” she said, giving a last glance at the royal seal and Alistair's sweeping signature 

“ _Amora_ , you are not a Crow,” he pointed out. “I am. You are a Warden, and I am not. So long as one of us is here to carry out those obligations, the other is free to see to other duties. And as I cannot sense darkspawn... If you wish it, you are free to go as you are the logical choice while I finish off our obligations here.”

Exasperated, Lyna plopped on the floor at his feet, laying her head on his lap. “I don't want to go! I don't ever want to see that Blighted place again! Here I'm just Lyna. Here I work for a living, and no one cares that I'm an elf. Not like they do in Ferelden. There, they look at me, Zev. They look at me like I'm scum.”

Gently Zevran took the missive from her, laying it on the table once more. “You are not scum, _amora_. They are a backwards lot who easily forget who saved them from destruction. Truly you should pity them. Besides, it is not as if all of them are so detestable. Your family is there.”

“My family?” she asked, shaking her head. She wrapped an arm around Zevran's leg. “My family... No, they're some people that were related to a girl who died on her wedding day. I'm not that girl anymore, and there's no connection between myself and them – if I saw them, I wouldn't know how to act, and they wouldn't either. Lyna Tabris as they knew her is long gone. It would only bring them pain.”

He heaved a sigh as he ran his nimble fingers through her hair soothingly. “Do not decide tonight then, _amora._ Wait until you have slept on it several days. That ship will not be leaving for a while I am certain.”

XXX

Together they moved through the crowd, Lyna playing the coquettish chit while he was the sly bodyguard. It was a customary routine and comfortable. Lyna's part was to pick up information that would be useful, and Zevran would seek their target, ready to carryout their orders. In this way, Zevran kept Lyna from some of the bloodshed. She wasn't the sort to play with her food before killing it as it were.

Lyna was too honourable not to give her targets some sort of chance, having picked up that particularly bad habit over the two years during the Blight. Zevran had no such compunctions. A target was a target and should be granted a quick death without personal remorse. Zevran was happy to stand back and allow his Warden to complete the task during some of their jobs , but when clandestine methods would be required, Zevran led.

This party was not to his tastes, but then again such extravagant gatherings rarely were. People from all over the merchant class of Antiva City were packed into the ostentatious villa and its outlying gardens, dressed gaily as they drank sickeningly sweet wine. Women painted like peacocks were bursting from their gowns like overstuffed sausages. The men were just as bad if not worse. Truly, whoever thought that to wear orange pantaloons with lavender tunics and wide, gold stamped leather belts was attractive should be tortured to death on principle. In fact, Zevran would do that job for free. High fashion met with poor taste and too much money always equaled a nightmare of color that made Zevran wish to gouge his eyes out to spare himself the headache. Not to mention the perfumes! The perfumes were the _worst_.

“Are you alright? You keep squinting.” Beside him Lyna brushed a hand down his forearm unobtrusively during a lull in their circuitous search.

He nodded, “As well as can be expected, _amora._ I have found that I lost what little taste I had for such soirees. I wonder if my eyes will start bleeding soon?”

Lyna laughed, hiding it delicately behind her green fan, “Are you not enjoying Señor Guilliermo's attire?

“His tailor should be drawn and quartered,” he said in amusement, wrinkling his nose.

“Hush now, he's the contract, not the mark. Be nice,” she said, tapping him lightly . “Oh look, another gaggle of women,” she sighed, sounding less than enthused as they rounded a bend and caught sight of several 'ladies'.

They were either mistresses or wives, Zevran wasn't sure which. Often enough they were both. They tittered amongst themselves with forced – and probably drunken – gaiety as they swapped boasts on how well off their husbands were. With a concerted effort, Zevran smoothed his features into blandness. It wouldn't do for a 'bodyguard' to have a visible opinion of distaste. With ease, he and Lyna inserted themselves so as to continue their quest for Guilliermo's wife. While it was true they had been provided with a description – dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, too much jewelry – that matched almost everyone male or female at the party.

Tuning out the conversation that Lyna was drawing the women into with practiced ease, Zevran scanned their surroundings with great care. Such a large number of people always hid at least one, but usually more, assassins, and while he and Lyna had dispensation from the Guild, that didn't necessarily mean that they were safe from attack. A garden such as this, with its high, sculpted bushes, various statuary and lovers' alcoves, was a perfect place for any assassin. Then again, so was the main hall. A good assassin didn't need to hide in dark places to do a job. They could walk around, smile, talk, and leave no one the wiser that a target was dying or just about to.

“Oh, I must simply know where you found one like him!” a shrill and cuttingly bright voice forced its way into his head like a lance.

Lyna fluttered her eyelashes, giggling, “Oh, I found him laying on his feet before me, my dear Señora Ines.”

Latching onto the name, Zevran smiled on cue, giving the target – thank the Maker they had finally found her – a once over. Bodyguards didn't speak, and Zevran knew his voice was as distinctive as his tattoos, but tattoos were easily covered, a voice was not. In missions past, Zevran had played an actor, one for a troupe that was frequently hired out amongst this group of party-goers, so silence was as much a protection as the makeup he wore.

The woman in question reached out to play with his hair rather brashly. “But he is a handsome one. Maybe I could convince you to part with him for an evening or three?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Lyna feigned indecision, snapping her fan open and closed. “It does get so lonely without him nearby.”

Ines sidled closer to him, the rank of alcohol and cloying lilac perfume was so potent that it was nearly enough to knock Zevran out. “Hmm... Then maybe I could convince you to ask him to get us some more to drink so that I can speak with you for a bit longer, my dear?”

Soon this too long night would be over.

XXX

Lyna hissed in sympathy as she rubbed a poultice into Zevran's shoulder, “Maker, why did she have to go and do this for?”

Stoic as usual, Zevran only cocked his head. “Antivan women have varied tastes, my dear. This is not so unusual.”

One of the few things that bothered Lyna about their work for the Crows was the method he chose to get to a target. It reminded her of a black widow or a preying mantis, using something that was supposed to be pleasurable and intimate to kill. To her it was abhorrent. Not only that, but it made her feel like Zevran was being whored out. Holding in her sigh, the Warden set the jar aside so that she could pick up the tin of thread and needle. The late Señora Ines had left gouges in the meat of her friend's back that would do a torturer proud, and they had to be stitched up if they weren't to leave broad scars. Healing poultices did their work, but to prevent the unsightly and excessive scarring, wounds had to be sealed and another layer of cream applied.

It had been four days since the summons arrived, and each day that Lyna wanted to burn it, Zevran would take it from her and place it on the center of their table. At the moment it sat, glaring in its own special way at her where she could see it over Zevran's shoulder as she laid neat stitches into bronze flesh. Tying off a knot, Lyna moved onto the next large gouge, which, just like the letter from Alistair, was a dark reminder of things she didn't wish to think about. Ines hadn't just clawed at Zevran's back in the throes of passion, it was almost as if she had taken a whip to him. Which actually wasn't that unlikely.

“What did she do, Zevran? These -” touching near the wound gently, “aren't what I would consider 'love marks'.”

Now Zevran shifted uncomfortably. “ _Amora_ , you know you should not ask questions when you do not want the answer.”

Bowing her head, Lyna knew she would have to reassess things. To stay in Antiva, as much as she loved it, would mean that Zevran would continue in this fashion. It wasn't like he let her share the burden fully, and she knew it. But anywhere they went, their skills were as rogues, spies and assassins – there was little in the way of 'honest' work that they could do. So no matter where they went, she would have to watch as Zevran took on the more unpleasant aspects of their shared professions.

So this then begged the questions – _would_ he return to Ferelden with her? And did she have the right to expect him to? Lyna was no longer sure she did as she had taken almost everything the assassin had to give without giving anything of herself in return.

XXX

Restless tossing and turning awoke Zevran. Rolling over, he propped up so he could look at Lyna. Her legs were sliding up and down under the sheet that kept them separated, a deep frown on her face. In the last few years Zevran had watched as the life had come back into her eyes, and in the last week there had been a pall threatening those smiles and twinkling eyes. Damn bastard-kings to the Pit, for even now the consequences of unthinking cruelty lingered.

Then again, Zevran himself had read over the letter, and it was quite cordial. Not simply non-threatening, but verging on apologetic for interrupting Lyna's life with such a request. But politeness and apologies didn't cancel out the trials Lyna had gone through her whole life, and the expectation of others' prejudices and their subsequent side effects would simply go away.... was unrealistic. Of course, Lyna took the summons as something other than what they were. It was only natural.

Scooting close to his young friend, draping an arm over her middle so that he could drag her to his bare chest, Zevran whispered meaningless stories in her pointed ear. At one point, simply speaking in Antivan had been enough to banish the demons that haunted her sleep, but now that Lyna spoke Antivan better than her native tongue, Zevran had had to come up with new tactics. So he had started with tales of his life, or how to make poisons – it didn't seem to matter what it was he spoke of, but simply that he did. Now the stories he told had become elaborate things, with little basis in fact.

If the two characters bore more than a passing resemblance to himself and Lyna – well, Zevran could be allowed such a liberty. And if all the stories ended with him getting the girl...well, then. He was the storyteller, and it wasn't as if Lyna remembered anything he whispered in the night. The Antivan knew he had to take what little joys he could, not that his life was so bad. There was food in his belly, a roof over his head, the death threats were minimal, and he had Lyna's constant friendship to come home to each day. They shared a bed every night, though they each had their own sheet to keep them apart and to ensure that they didn't travel into the mostly uncharted waters of 'lovers'.

Still, sometimes Zevran – like now – would pretend that there was nothing between their bodies but air, and that the stories he told were true, and not simple wishes for more. It wasn't in him to ask for more than she could give, but that was the only rule that Zevran had to remind himself of constantly.

With a moan and a particularly hard jerk, Lyna awoke in his arms. “Zevran?!”

She sounded frightened, and the scrabbling hands reaching for him hurt more than any punishment that a target could dish. It was rare that she was so frantic, and while Lyna never spoke of what nightmares she had, Zevran knew enough. Some would be of the Archdemon, others of her 'life' in the Alineage – possibly even her wedding day, while others were things that not even he could pry from the Warden. Deep seated demons ate at everyone, even someone as strong as Lyna.

“Hush now, _amora_. You are awake and safe,” he hummed the words low as Lyna buried her face into the vibration of his throat. Stroking her hair slowly, he whispered, “There is nothing to fear here.”

Gradually she calmed, the gasping easing into a few hiccoughs. A hand wiggled between them, shoving the soft sheets aside so that there was nothing between them but their underthings. Zevran waited. This wasn't the first time his Warden had done this, the only difference was that she hadn't had anything to drink. Slim, toned legs, smooth but for a handful of scars, tangled with his, and Lyna pressed close.

Nuzzling at her cheek, not encouraging but not resisting, Zevran rubbed slow circles over the small of her back. An eternity later Lyna must have come to some decision as kisses were feathered on his neck. Blood already half quickened by the young woman's presence – as usual, he had spent most of the last few years half ready to jump on her given a chance, the need to be close to Lyna a constant ache and demand – surged at the small stimulation.

He threaded his fingers in her hair, stroking a rough thumb over a high cheekbone. _“Amora.”_

Further words were silenced by her lips on his, mouth opening in an invitation that Zevran accepted. Sweeping in, Zevran made no further advances, letting Lyna take the lead. There was a distinct lack of heat in the kiss, no frenzied desire. Unsure of what it was that Lyna needed, Zevran bided his time. He was nothing if not a patient man.

“Do you need me, Zevran?” she whispered as she pulled away to look into his face, features soft, the earlier terror all but vanished.

Now _that_ was a loaded question if he had ever heard one.

“Always,” he answered as simply as he could.

Lyna's expression softened even further, that particular sort of sadness that was in it deepening as well. Zevran shuddered inside, to be looked at like that left him breathless and frightened. With unwarranted reverence, his Warden mapped his features with exceedingly gentle fingers. It was almost as if she were seeing him for the first time.

Lips followed the path that callused fingers took, and Zevran's breathing picked up speed. Gentle urgings pressed Zevran onto his back, and his world tilted on its axis. Trembling, the assassin stared at Lyna's half lidded eyes as she rose up, peeling off her breast binder. It was tossed aside, and with a shimmy her smallclothes were also removed and discarded. This was a chilly night so they had left the little heating stove running, and warm embers cast his Warden in a golden glow, granting her sun kissed skin a molten quality.

Urged to action Zevran moved to caress her hips and waist, the swells fuller than when he had first met her. Years of battle and a steady diet lent her musculature a voluptuous shape that was rare amongst their kind, just as his years had given him a breadth of chest and shoulder that wasn't the norm. Scars – a grand webbing of pale traces – mapped over her belly and breasts. Each one Zevran knew, as often he had been the one to sew them up even as the long gone Wynne had healed the worst of the internal damage. This was no untouched beauty, but a wild thing that could be tamed by nothing in the Maker's world. Nor should it be.

A crushing weight built in Zevran’s chest at seeing Lyna like this.

Feeling no urgency, Zevran sat up so he could explore her slowly. The flavor of clean, warm flesh filled his mouth along with a nipple that puckered as he pulled away to breathe on it. Its twin was treated to the same experience before Zevran moved downwards, licking at each thin white line. At one point whenever the assassin caught sight of his elven lady's scars, he had viewed each as a personal failure. Now each was a sign of a success, not for him, but for her – she had survived everything rather than fall.

In near silence Zevran listened for Lyna's quiet sighs as she lay back granting him control. She was allowing him something important, but Zevran wouldn't let himself think on its meaning. The only thing that mattered was memorizing the flavor and feel of her body. Achieving his target and spreading her thighs, Zevran leaned forward, breathing in her perfume. How he had _craved_ this intimate knowledge of Lyna, for it had been denied to him in their infrequent, base, and frenzied couplings in the past.

If there was a chance he had any say about it, that would change.

A moan broke the air as he set to work, teasing out nectar from his Warden's sex. At first Zevran didn't realize that it was _his_ voice, until a gentle hand came to rest atop his, seeking to grant reassurance. Twining their fingers together, Zevran continued, wanting to give Lyna as much pleasure in this act as he himself received. This was distinctly different with her than with others. To give of himself in this manner, it wasn't physical in spite of the obvious. She held a salty sweet, citrus tang from the foods they ate and short hairs brushed over nose and cheek. Zevran _reveled_ in it.

This was his Golden City and Lyna was his Maker.

Languid sighs were torn from Lyna's throat, her nectar and his saliva mixing and making her slick. Stomach muscles clenched in reply to her small cry as she peaked, his name falling from her mouth in a short broken sound. Lapping up every bit of creamy evidence from her flower, Zevran only pulled away once he was satisfied that he had worked every last drop out.

Crawling up her body, Zevran went to kiss her, and Lyna met him halfway. A thrill of unnamed peace shot through him at that small gesture. It was intensified by Lyna pushing his own undergarment down his hips and thighs, the kiss unbroken no matter that he had to twist awkwardly to be completely free of the cotton.

Again, Lyna urged him to lie back. “May I?”

“Anything, _amora_ ,” he replied, sinking onto the bed.

Lyna repeated the same thing for him. His hips jerked and a hiss escaped from him when the heat of her mouth finally enveloped the head of his prick after she made her own exploration of his myriad scars. Zevran threw his arms back to grip the simple wooden headboard and hung on to prevent being lost to the wet pleasure. All too soon he had to beg her to stop, not wanting to fall over the edge of the world.

Zevran wouldn't do it, at least not without her.

Taking his beloved elf in his arms, Zevran rolled them onto her back, needing to show Lyna that he belonged to her in all ways. Legs wrapped around his waist, drawing him tight to her, and Lyna peppered his shoulders with kisses as he slid into her body. Lyna whimpered once he was pressed to the mouth of her womb, and Zevran was almost unmanned by her arms hugging him even closer. This was unlike anything Zevran had ever felt, not even in his long and varied years.

Crashing like waves against each other, Zevran and Lyna moved in sync. Such a simple act, but the tear drops that welled from his eyes left glistening gems on Lyna's cheeks. His Warden brought his face close so she could kiss the tracks that slipped over his face and down his jaw, and when their mouths met all Zevran could taste was salt. Pouring everything into Lyna, Zevran strove onwards until the world stopped. Together they shuddered and shook, clinging as tight as two people could.

Entangled they lay, and Zevran shoved the fear to the side. He would ask no more than she could give. And this was a gift, he knew it. So he savored the weight of his Warden snuggled into his arms, the taste of her in his mouth, the stickiness that slowly oozed onto his thigh from where it pressed to her apex, and thanked the powers that be for this precious thing they had shared.

But it was also a goodbye, he found out in the morning, not just a gift.


	2. Scrapped Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which battle plans always go awry.

“Ah, my dear, so good to see you!” Ignacio, the quintessential gentleman assassin, gave her only a mild smile in greeting as she opened the door, forgoing any flare and ignoring the two posted guards as if they weren't there.

Lyna said without preamble, ignoring niceties, “I need to leave for Ferelden.”

The office was elegant, and simple – by Antivan standards – with several busts of marble carved into the faces of the Master Crow's predecessors. Blue tiles were set in a mosaic border around the whole of the office, making a center stripe separating the top from the bottom of the white walls. Small windows near the ceiling provided light, opening up the room. Ignacio, who had once been her contact in Denerim, had been overjoyed when Lyna and Zevran came to Antiva looking for work. And he had provided it with a small smile, as if he had always known that they would show up on his doorstep.

For all Lyna knew, he had.

“So hasty, Warden. Why not have some wine?” he asked, pulling out an unopened bottle and two small crystal glasses. 

Shaking her head, Lyna also ignored the seat he waved to. “No, thank you.”

“You won't mind if I indulge then? No? Good.” He popped the cork with a practiced flick of a knife – the old man kept his skills sharp, for Lyna hadn't even seen the weapon appear until then. Not that the Crow would be so stupid as to ever attack her. They both knew that it was more profitable all around if she stayed alive. “So you wish to leave for Ferelden. This saddens me, my dear, but it isn't unexpected. I have heard of the ship in the harbor, but I had hoped that you would consider staying on.”

Being honest with him, something Zevran had always warned her _not_ to be, she spoke, “I want to know if you'll cause trouble for Zevran if he decides to stay.”

There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes as he paused mid sip, “You wish to leave him behind? Truly? I find this... strange. Forgive me, fair Warden, but I must ask – why would you do such a thing?”

“Antiva is his home, Ignacio, and while he's not been accepted back into the ranks as a Crow and is still technically under a ban, I don't want him to leave unless he wishes to,” she replied with a shrug, finally making herself comfortable in one of the carved wooden bench-chairs. 

Ignacio thought for several minutes, drinking his red wine slowly before answering as he paced leisurely around his desk, “Zevran is dead and has been for some time to the eyes of the Crows, what exists is a weapon in the hands of a Grey Warden that is wielded with skill. My Crows and I will cause no problems for him, as he is simply an extension of yourself.” Crystal made a soft 'clink' as he set it down on the marble inset of his desk. “I do have some sway amongst the Council as you know and I have continued to support this viewpoint. In spite of the trouble it has caused me personally, I have found that it has been worth it.”

Reading between the lines, Lyna nodded in understanding. The Council of Masters were as cutthroat as one would expect of a guild of assassins to be, and any edge of prestige was to be clung to in hopes of keeping life, limb, property and title. Especially if it could further a Masters' political career within the Guild. And having a pet Grey Warden on the payroll had been enough to insure Ignacio's position and secure the means for further advancement.

“But to leave such a volatile weapon behind for long, Lyna, my dear, is to risk someone taking it or breaking it,” he said, finishing the last of his wine as he sat down. The assassin clasped his hands and leaned forward on the desk. “There will come a point where keeping him in my arsenal will no longer be feasible if you are not here to control him.”

“And what of our current contracts then?” she asked, accepting the fact that while Ignacio would do nothing actively to harm Zevran, the Crow couldn't really do more than that. 

He waved a hand in dismissal. “Do not worry for that. If Zevran stays,he can continue to work as if you are here until such a time as you either return to make it true, or if he chooses to leave I shall have someone else complete the contracts. This I do out of friendship, Warden. You have been the fuel for my rise and I am not the sort of man who does not give credit where it is due.” 

Not bothering to hide a smile, she asked, “And this has nothing to do with the fact that if I came back to Antiva that I would remember you fondly?”

He chuckled, “Oh, of course not!”

XXX

It was a rare thing to wake up without Lyna beside him. Zevran rolled over, searching first with hands and then with ears to check where she was. Bolting from the bed he went through their rooms and found them empty. He had _never_ slept so soundly that he hadn't heard her leave before. Sunlight poured through the leaded glass of the windows, a shaft hitting the table alerting him to a horrible fact that he hadn't let sink in at first.

The missive was gone.

Along with Lyna.

Shaking, Zevran fell, bracing his hands on the table. Knees began to buckle, but Zevran shivered fighting off the despair. Lyna was gone, possibly for hours. Forcibly collecting himself, the elf went to dress himself for travel and battle. There was only one place Lyna would have gone, only one place that held a stronger claim to her than he did.

If he was lucky, incredibly lucky – the ship would not have left yet.

From the false bottom of his trunk Zevran pulled out the reserve of hard currency and gems collected over the years, and tucked it under the skirt of his leathers. Into a pack the bare necessities were shoved, repeated practice aiding the assassin with discarding the unimportant in favor of what could be most helpful in a variety of situations. Finished in only a few minutes, Zevran stood to leave only stopping for one last look at their rumpled bed, the site of what he had thought was deeply meaningful lovemaking.

Passing one of the rather simple paintings as he exited, Zevran paused. It had been a gift from Lyna for the day she had decided was to be his birthday shortly after they arrived in Antiva City. The view was from the top of one of the Chantry cathedrals, and had been painted on a small canvas, no more than seven or eight inches long and five wide. Unable to leave that momento behind, Zevran grabbed it from the wall, snapped the frame to loosen the canvas, and rolled it up, shoving the prize into his pack. 

With that the former Crow stormed from the building, heading straight for the harbor. His dear Warden wouldn't be able to leave him behind so easily as that. As soon as he could find her, Zevran would do whatever was needed to pry the information from her as to _why_ she would do this to him with no warning. Except there was warning, and Zevran caught his breath, standing in the middle of a cobbled street, ignoring the passersby that jostled him. Maybe she had finally tired of his needy presence, or maybe she couldn't face what they had shared last night. It was even possible she was sick of their lifestyle, of how he conducted the business of their kills. 

Steeling himself, Zevran shoved through the crowds; he would find out what madness had gripped Lyna. And then he would either fix it, or fade into the shadows of her life if that was her desire. But he would never leave. Zevran Arainai couldn't, he was a slave to his heart and it commanded him to find his goddess, that magnificent woman who had given him life. The one person who had taken him from the mud and dirt and blood, granting a mercy that was unexpected which was made further invaluable by giving him a place where he belonged as a person, not an object. 

Wynne had once warned him that his obsession would bring only a lingering pain that would eventually kill him. At the time, Zevran had thought the old woman mad, but the longer the assassin spent in the company of his elven rogue, the greater the agony had become. Except there was no way he could leave, no way to free himself, and he didn't want to. If she commanded it, Zevran would have walked through the fires of the Pit and assaulted the Black City armed with nothing but his bare hands. While Lyna would do no such thing, Zevran would do _anything_ she needed or wanted, and count himself lucky for the chance to do so.

The mage had been right, Lyna would be the death of him, but she was also the person who gave him something to live for. It was fitting if she was the reason he died. But thoughts of death swirled round and round his head, even as he sidestepped street urchins wending his way with purpose, ignoring every obstacle with the single-minded determination that was pounded into all Crows when on a mission. 

Woe betide any who got in his way.

XXX

Zevran clearly didn't want to be found, and that hurt Lyna. After having returned to their flat and finding him gone – along with his best armor and weapons, pack and bare essentials – Lyna left, heading to the harbor. After adding as many items as she could feasibly carry to her own pack, trading for one of the largest they had rather than the lightweight one she usually carried. The Antivan was the one who usually shouldered the bulk of their gear, as his physical strength far exceeded hers, while her speed outmatched his. She had intended on telling him she was leaving for Ferelden, and to _ask_ if he would come. Not to demand, nor expect it as she so often had. 

No, she must have finally pushed him too far ,and Zevran had come to his senses and left as he should have long ago. It was wrong of her to ask so much of him, to expect his constant presence while knowing how much he loved her, and she being too hurt to give him what he deserved. Last night had been for him, a 'thank you' and an expression of what she _did_ feel for him. 

Of _course_ it had been too little, too late.

Climbing to the rooftops, Lyna took the thief's unofficial highway, seeking the familiar view of Antiva City. Small comfort that it was. The red shingles on roofs of ivory or saffron buildings, glimmering windows reflected light back a thousandfold as the sun beat down. Mid-morning in Antiva City was a bustling affair before the hard heat of noon hit, the populace running errands and going about their lives. It was a hypnotic lull, the effect only dampened by Zevran not leaping beside her, nimble feet finding purchase everywhere, hands helping maintain his balance. 

Doing this in armor wasn't as easy as Lyna remembered, and she was ungainly in her execution of a jump from one roof to another, and slid. Clattering tile came loose, falling to the ground to break several stories below, but Lyna regained her footing and continued. It wouldn't do to slip and break a leg – or her neck – over her inattention. 

Far too quickly the harbor loomed, and Lyna slithered down the side of a warehouse, feet hitting the cobbles lightly. With a bounce that belied her inner turmoil, Lyna wove through the dockhands and teamsters shouting back and forth to the sleek brigantine that waited to take her away. Duty was now all she had left with Zevran gone. At least she could be sure she had taken care of some of the threat the Guild posed to him, with Ignacio's tacit support. 

Stalking up the stone pier, Lyna pulled out the royal missive from where it had been tucked in the chest piece of her armor. With the heavy parchment in hand, Lyna thrust thoughts of the assassin from her mind, burying it deep with the ache that had faded in her soul. Later it could bother her, but now she had no such luxury. 

“Can I help you?” a man asked in broken Antivan with a bad accent. Typical Ferelden _shemlin_ , tall, pasty, sallow with too much facial hair. Arms crossed and hostile, eyeing her armor and ears with suspicion. “We don't hire women on, an' we ain't lookin' for any mercenaries.”

Disgusted, Lyna held out the letter, speaking in Ferelden, “I'm the Warden Commander, and I believe that you've been awaiting my arrival to take me to Denerim.”

Cogs had to turn in the sailor's head. “You're the Hero of Ferelden? Prove it.”

Expression twisting into that of distaste, “Not the only one, no. Loghain was the one who struck the final blow. The mage Wynne kept us all alive to get there, and the Crow, Zevran, dragged me from the wreckage even though he himself was half dead. And the stench of darkspawn and Archdemon are not things one ever forgets. Now that I've proven who I am, let me aboard to speak to the captain so we can shove off and go to that Blight cursed country. Is that sufficient, _shemlin_?” she flooded the sailor with information that hopefully he wouldn't ever bother her again, and threw the mildest insult possible in such a way that it became the worst. Just so he would know _his place._

With a blank expression of shock, the sailor blinked rapidly and stammered, “Ah, sorry Miss Warden, t'weren't meant as no disrespect. Is just that these Antivans – they always be throwin' knife ear – I mean uh...”

“That is enough, my good man.” A tan hand clapped the sailor on the shoulder from behind. “I am sure the Warden understands that you are simply doing your job keeping the masses away.” 

Like an apparition, Zevran stepped from behind the sailor and gave her an inscrutable look before waving for her to follow. Lyna shivered in response and trailed after him up the gangplank, the wood creaking, dipping and swaying with their steps. Buffed and polished leather gleamed with waxy dullness, the drakeskin giving the assassin an even more impressively broad stature. Long blond hair was caught into a tight braid, swinging back and forth down his back, the leather kilt traded for silk breeches, tied at the waist with a red sash, and knee boots. 

By comparison Lyna felt clumsy and over dressed, weighed down as she was by her pack. Hiking the weight up higher on her back, Lyna had to remind herself to roll as she walked. Even though the swells were gentle in the bay, the ship still heaved up and down like a fractious horse. She didn't want to make a further ass of herself than she already clearly had if Zevran's expression had been anything to go by. To the aft they made their way, and down a few steps into the narrow hallway to what she assumed were officers quarters. 

With an elegant shove, Zevran opened the door, held it wide for her as she tossed the pack on the bunk. A kick closed the door, the only warning Lyna had before Zevran bodily picked her up, and thrust her back to the wall, forearm coming across her throat like an iron bar. For a moment Lyna felt a thrill of terror looking into flinty gold eyes.

“Thought to leave without me, Warden?” he asked, his face a mask of hard cutting edges, sharp angles, completely devoid of endearments. It gave Lyna a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

Swallowing, she stared up at him. “I went back to the apartment. You weren't there.”

His lips were pressed into a thin line, and the pressure on her throat didn’t abate. “And where did you go first, Warden?”

“To Ignacio,” she replied, chewing her lip. Lyna didn't know what Zevran wanted to hear. “I had to tell him I was leaving, and to ask if you would still have some protection if you didn't come with me.”

“I need no protection that _cabrón_ could provide,” he spat. 

She reached up to touch his cheek, and he caught her hand, slamming it to the wall overhead so hard that her wrist went numb. She begged him to understand, “I wanted you to have the option of staying, Zev.”

“ _Zevran_ ,” he snapped.

Now Lyna whimpered. He had never insisted on the full use of his name. Never, not once in their entire messed up relationship. Whenever she called him 'Zevran' rather than 'Zev' it was only because she liked the sound of his name rolling off her tongue, or to grab his attention to let him know what she was going to say was important. 

Slumping, Lyna closed her eyes, turning her face away. “I didn't want to force you to leave Antiva, I've made you follow me everywhere. It felt wrong to take you from your home again just because I have a duty to the Wardens. I hoped you would say yes, but I couldn't be sure.” She paused and added in a whisper, “I didn't want to be selfish.”

The arm left her neck, and hard fingers clamped around her jaw, forcefully turning her face back to his. “My _home_? And you never gave thought to _what_ my home was, did you?” Lyna had never seen him more angry. He growled, “You have no idea do you, Warden? None at all, not even after everything.”

Releasing her, Zevran stared at her long and hard. Shaking his head, expression suddenly pained, the crinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes deepening and he heaved a great sigh. For all the world, the bronze elf sounded like a wounded animal as he sank to the floor before her, forehead touching the tops of her boots. 

Shocked Lyna fell into an awkward squat, hesitating before touching the back of his neck. “Zev – Zevran?”

 _“Soy tuyo,”_ he mumbled into the wood over and over again. _“Soy siempre fiel, pues soy tuyo. Soy tuyo, mi diosa. ”_

XXX

Two months of sailing and still he was wary. Zevran had already done everything in his power to show Lyna his dedication, and still she had believed he may abandon her to the winds of fortune. His Warden had even looked at him with _fear._ As if he could ever harm her. Wincing at the memory that, yes, he had attacked, been fearsome and intimidating but no - she should know he would never lay a hand on her with the intent to _harm._

It was the same look she had given Alistair when he yelled and screamed like an angry, spoiled brat when she spared Loghain.

Hanging in the rigging like one of those furry things from the jungles of Arlathan that some of the rich kept as pets, Zevran stared down at the main deck. Lyna was going through limbering exercises that, at one point, Zevran would have joined in on. Now he didn't, he just avoided her at all costs. At night he slept in the hold amongst bales of silk and cotton. That is, _when_ he could sleep at all. For now, Zevran would bide his time in the hopes that his hurt would settle down, and it had somewhat. Two months was a long time when weighed against the constant companionship of years.

She may not have planned to leave him per se, but Zevran couldn't overlook the fact that she was so willfully ignorant. As if he ever had a choice, now she mocked him by trying to 'give' him one. That in and of itself was as deep a wound as ever had been inflicted, ranking closely with Rinna. Though he could forgive Lyna anything, and she hadn't _intended_ on striking such a blow. He himself had inflicted unintended injury on her as well - she was not the only guilty party. Sighing, Zevran let out a soft string of curses in four different languages.

Again and again she was trying to give him his freedom – forgetting that he had already come to the decision that he would spend all of that gift on her.

Squinting against the bright sun, Zevran decided that he was too old to play this game. He was an adult, and rather than sit around and pout he should man up and simply put everything on the table in plain words. Not that the elf had any experience in such things, but if matters were to ever be straightened out he would have to do something drastic. So he scuttled down the ropes, hands bearing even heavier calluses from the friction of coarse fibers rubbing against the flesh of his hands and his feet, the skin thickening to a point that rope no longer burned.

As he approached, Lyna caught sight of him. There was a guarded expression on her fine elven features,.“Hello, Zevran.”

“I... wish to speak with you,” he said, pausing several feet from her, “If I may.”

“You do?” she asked, sounding surprised. 

And he supposed she should. Since he had bowed at her feet, Zevran hadn't said more than five words to the Warden in the long months aboard the _Swift Mabari._

Spreading his hands, palms up, he spoke, “Things as they are, are not good, and I wish... to discuss them with you. To see if... something may be salvaged.”

“I take it this is something that should be private,” Lyna said, finally sheathing her weapons from her practice. 

“If it pleases you, then yes, privacy would be a good thing,” he agreed. 

It was something at least. Her body language spoke of defense, of walls that he would have to find some way to overcome. Between the two of them, Zevran was the one with the most experience in handling various hurts to psyche and body. Lyna was only in her twenties, and the things she knew were how to hide like an animal, to lash out and protect when necessary and a grim shouldering of duty. In spite of having a loving family, Lyna had known loss while Zevran had never had anything _to_ lose. She knew of betrayed trust, as the victim. And he knew of it as the betrayer. 

How many of his actions looked like Alistair's in her eyes?

Gathering his courage Zevran entered her cabin and sat immediately. Making himself small, leaving her the one standing. He would have to tread carefully to ensure none of his movements were threatening. Zevran didn't want Lyna to feel that he was a danger to her in any fashion.

“So...” she sighed, leaving her baldrics on, leaning one shoulder on the bulkhead, “Would you like me to start, or would you care to?”

He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in the lone chair, “Perhaps I should ask first if you still wish my company?”

“That's a stupid question, Zevran,” she huffed. “Of course I do. You're my friend and a part of my life. Without you I don't... I don't know what to do for myself. Only what is expected of me as a Grey Warden.” Heaving a great sigh, Lyna removed her weapons, the motion speaking of at least some minor softening to the barriers, “But I make no claims on you, Zevran. You're your own person, you can come and go as you please.”

 _Friend._ He was her _friend_. Not her partner, not her lover, not _hers_. But Zevran could work with 'friend' if he had to, as he had in the past - foolish as he was to have thought they had moved beyond ‘friends’ these last years. Which he did, there wasn't much choice in the matter. More the fool was he that he believed there was a chance for more. 

He could still work with _friend._

Softly, voice not much above a whisper, “Why did you leave then without awakening me? Why did you gather your gear and vanish?”

“I was trying to save time, and you were... sleeping, Zevran. I didn't want to disturb you,” she said, edging closer to him unconsciously. “You looked so peaceful.”

He scanned her features carefully and all he saw was earnestness. “You left with your kit packed.”

“To save time,” she reiterated.

Unsure if he actually believed it, he pressed, “And why not simply leave the pack? Leave the missive? You could have done thus and I would have known your plans were to leave Antiva City. But I would not have thought you intended to toss me aside if you had done things that way.”

“I wasn't thinking,” she replied, her gaze falling to her feet and her cheeks coloring with what he assumed was shame. Hands clasped together where they hung at her waist and fingers twisting over one another in a loop, she elaborated, “I wasn't... entirely myself. But my intention wasn't to give you the impression that I was...”

“Fleeing? That is how it looked, as if you regretted laying with me and were running as far as you could get,” there were hints of anger entering his tone, unbidden. “As if you were done with me, with this entire... _situation._ I felt -” he choked in surprise at the strength of the emotion, “I felt _abandoned._ ”

Putting it into words for the first time, Zevran could only lean on an elbow, burying his face in his hand. That wasn't the only thing he felt – he had _felt_ used, unworthy as well. It was as if no matter how hard he tried, he wasn't deserving of Lyna in any shape or form. Not as the holder of his oath, not as a friend, and never as a lover.

“Oh, Zevran,” she whispered, fingers sliding over his jawline as she knelt beside him. “No, Zevran. I... just, no.”

Her forehead touched his cheek, and then he found his mouth captured, Lyna kissing him for everything she was worth. Groaning, Zevran broke, taking her in his arms, clinging. Reality snapped back into focus when her palm slipped over his chest, moving lower and lower.

He snatched her wrist. “No. You cannot buy me with... with _sex_.”

As if he were some cheap whore, that is how it felt, easily purchased, easily swayed. A piece of him howled that he should take what he could get. But Zevran wasn’t that poor thing he had once been, and would not settle for brief pleasure when he knew what he could have. If he could but make Lyna _understand_ , then it would be something they _both_ could have.

Her face twisted into a confused frown. “I wasn't trying to, Zevran. I was... I was trying to...” She threw her hands up, swearing, “ _Braska_ , Zevran. I don't know what you need from me. I don't know how to tell you that I'm sorry, that I didn't mean to make you feel used. Never, not ever would I do that on purpose.” Crying out, Lyna threw herself away from him with a shove, even as he tried to hang on to her, “I've done my best, Zevran, since Maker knows when to not simply fall into your arms and take whatever you had to give, just because I wanted it! There's so much I've done to you that's wrong, depending on you to do everything, to take care of me even when I... when I don't know _how_ to give myself to you. Let alone understand why you would even want me to!”

“When have I ever _said_ you used me, _amora_?” he asked in exasperation, rubbing his forehead, knowing that he had never actually _said_ such a thing, and sure that he had never voiced any such sentiment in any way. “Have I ever asked anything of you?” 

“Don't you see? That's the problem, Zevran, you don't ask for anything. You only hold your hands out to give and give and _give_ ,” she said, dropping to the floor, legs akimbo and anger and confusion on her face, though neither emotion was directed at himself,he believed. “I don't want to take from you without giving something in return, but I don't _know_ what you want. My friendship? You have that. My body? It's there for the taking. My heart? I don't have one that works right anymore, but I failed epically at trying to give that to you, too.” 

Brow beetling, a small glimmer of hope formed within him and the assassin relented, removing one of the few barriers he himself had put up for his own protection. “Your heart works just fine, _amora._ Your mind is simply not ready for connecting with it. I only wish to know if there is some possibility for a...future with you. As more than friends.”

“I can't promise anything, Zevran,” she answered, shame faced. “And that's why I thought maybe... it would have been better for you to have stayed behind. Not that I want that life for you either, as often as you get hurt. But it's why I packed, Zevran. I knew I would go back to ask you to come with me, but it wasn't within my rights to expect you to. Because if you decided to stay in Antiva, I would have had to leave immediately or risk loosing my nerve to let you go.”

“Hmm, a fine pair we make, my fair Warden. A lovesick assassin and an emotionally unavailable hero. Leliana could write a story about us, no?” he mused, tipping his head so that it rested against the wall behind him.

He heard Lyna scooting to sit at his feet, a position she often took so that she could lay her head in his lap. The familiarity of it eased some of the knots in the Antivan's stomach. He sighed in relief as the weight of Lyna's chin came to rest on his knee and he reached out to tangle his fingers in her locks, massaging her scalp as was often his wont.

“I've always thought those stories were stupid, you know. All of the ones Leli told had terrible endings,” she groused. “For once there should be some happiness at the end of a story.”

“Happiness is what you make of it, _amora_. In the end we all die, and that is what makes her tales so sad. You do not wish to be reminded of our mortality and the eventuality of death. But you are right, perhaps we should make a story that has a more palatable ending, hmm?” he said, staring at the ceiling.

“Zev...” Her lips pressed to the inside of his wrist. “I hope you know that I do...have...some feelings for you.”

“I am sure they are as confusing as mine,” acknowledging the peace offering. 

She snorted, unamused, “You seem rather sure of yours.” She paused, thinking and Zevran was content to let her. For his waiting he was rewarded. “Do you think we could start again?”

It was more than he could have ever hoped for.

“ _Como desees, soy tuyo, mi diosa_ ,” he murmured far more at peace than he had been since that ill fated morning. “Nothing would please me more, _amora.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cabrone - asshole
> 
> Soy suya. Siempre fiel, por soy suya. Soy suya mi diosa - I am yours. I am always faithful, for I am yours. I am yours, my goddess.
> 
> Como desees, soy tuyo, mi diosa - As you wish, my goddess, I am yours


	3. Patched Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interruptions are bad

Her room smelled of tea and roses, an altogether pleasant thing after the business of dealing with the nobles. The Arlessa's quarters were larger than anything Lyna had ever lived in, and she felt lost simply by entering the foyer. It was more than quadruple the size of she and Zevran's flat in Antiva and her family in the Alienage made use of an apartment that would fit in just the sitting room. Seeking the more familiar and comforting – and subsequently smaller – setting of the bower Lyna ignored the trappings of noble station. It was a cozy affair by a noble's estimation, but even so Lyna felt swallowed whole sometimes. 

“Ah, you shall have to pour yourself some of this tea, my hands are rather engaged at the moment,” Zevran said from his position near the fireplace. He was almost hidden by the massive chair he was ensconced in. “I find that my estimation of the time of your arrival was a touch off, I take it that this means things either went exceedingly well or quite badly with those whom seek the Arlessa's favor?”

Rolling her eyes, Lyna stepped towards the red upholstered chair, “You could say that it was some of both. Apparently Rendon Howe left us a present in the way of a tangled situation.” 

“Oh-ho? I do so love a good posthumous conspiracy, do tell _amora_ ,” rather gleefully, Zevran laughed. “Spare me no details!”

Grunting as she tossed off some of her over clothes to be left in naught but her long sleeved under tunic, “Oh it was nothing really, just the former Arl promised Lady Packton some of Ser Derren's land in return for supporting Loghain in the civil war.” Finally moving around the chair so she could take her customary seat, “What in the Maker's name are you doing Zev?” slack jawed, Lyna was flabbergasted and staring as she pointed. “And is that oil?”

Having come to a sudden stop, Lyna eyed Zevran who was wearing not much more than a smile, and a pair of cotton trews rolled up to above his knees. That wasn't what was so odd. No, that was rather normal – or at least it had been in Antiva, and aboard the _Swift Mabari_ the assassin had worn the same with the addition of a sash to hold two small knives. It was the fact that at his feet were two pans, one filled with what looked like oil, the other soapy water. And his hands were in a bowl that sat balanced on his knees, which was the source of the rose scent. At his elbow sat a teapot, with a small candle under it to keep the contents warm and two cups, as well as a variety of implements that seemed best suited to a dungeon.

Glancing down and back up, with a quizzical tilt of the head, “Yes, it most certainly is. Have you never done this? It is quite relaxing I assure you.” Jerking his chin towards what was 'her' chair – a less overstuffed version of his, done in green velvet, “There are pans there for you as well. Sit down, and let your feet soak for a few minutes in the soapy one. You don't have as much callus to remove as I, _amora_.”

Still confused, “I don't understand.”

“I spent much time up in the _Swift Mabari's_ rigging _amora_ ,” setting aside the bowl of fragrant water, sorting through the various tools and selecting what looked like a strange whetstone. “Hemp is cruel to the flesh, no? Far worse than the leather of a hilt or boot, and now my hands are...excessively rough.” Holding up one beautiful hand palm outwards, Lyna saw that indeed the once smooth skin had become thick and coarse, “callus serves a purpose but doesn't have to be so...unkempt.” Watching Zevran eye his hand speculatively, “Hmph, disgusting. No one would wished to be touched by something so inelegant.” Then he raised a foot, showing off how pruned they were from soaking, however Lyna could tell where the skin had become tough, “And my feet are much worse, no? How hideous, to be sure Ogrhen and I currently share in this ugliness and I've no wish for it to continue!”

“And so you're... soaking your feet in oil,” frowning, gingerly sitting down and poking her own bowl of oil with a toe not asking about _who_ he would be touching.

An indecisive Alienage girl could make no claims on Zevran when she had already forfeited them.

The strange whetstone was grasped and then rubbed vigorously in his palms as the assassin hummed, “Yes, it makes the removal easier by far.”

“And these, _tools_?” pointing to them. “What are they for?”

“To scrape and smooth,” examining his palms and switching to a file, buffing the edges of the nails of his fingers. “This -” tapping a cruel device that had some sort of blade attached along with a guard with his elbow, not stopping his filing, “is for cutting away the dead parts, you see? You must be gentle with it or it will slice into the living meat which...would be undesirable, yes?”

Making a face, “That sounds dangerous Zev.”

With a flick of a wrist the file was tossed onto the table and the round handled _thing_ for scraping was picked up, “I do like to live dangerously _amora_. Otherwise I would make a very poor assassin.”

“Leli's estimation of you was right,” watching as Zevran hoisted a foot onto his knee, beginning to saw at a heel. “You're insane. But you're my insane assassin I suppose.”

Zevran's only reply was a 'hmmhmm'. Bent double, thin trails of what looked like white mushy slivers of disgusting goop shed from his foot, his long braid slithered over a broad shoulder, tapping his bicep with each motion, making a soft sound with each strike. It looked altogether unsafe, and Lyna could take it no longer. Moving from her spot, nabbing a footstool she halted his actions with a hand on his wrist.

“Show me how to do this,” wrapping fingers around his ankle, and pulling it to her lap. 

Quickly she picked up the mechanics and set to it, using more care than Zevran had been showing his foot. With a contented sigh the Antivan slumped into the chair, relaxing into it like a cat into a good session of petting. Smiling at the image, Lyna continued.

Interrupting the rhythmic motions, “Hmm... what do you think of Anders?”

Flicking her gaze upwards for a moment before returning to the odd grooming, “Good mage, funny, a little cracked around the edges.”

“Ah all are, are they not?” chuckling gently. 

Pausing, Lyna thought about the mage for a few seconds, “Actually he reminds me of... you and Alistair.”

“Oh? How so _amora_?” one lid popped open to look at her as he folded his hands over the taut muscles of his abdomen.

“Well – if you and Alistair had some sort of child,” nose crinkling at the thought. “He looks like Alistair, and is goofy like Alistair, but has your libido. And inability to take 'no' for an answer.”

Pressing a hand to his heart in mock pain, “Oh, how you wound me _amora_! I am a gentleman and never foist my attentions on a completely uninterested woman or man!”

Dipping a hand into the bowl of now tepid water she flicked a spray of droplets at him, laughing, “You know what I mean!”

“Hmm...yes I suppose I do,” teeth flashing in a wide grin, eyes twinkling. “Perhaps that is why I do not mind his presence so much, it is like be around myself if only I were an idiot who wielded the elements!”

Countering, “What do you think of Sigrun?”

Watching him mull it over for a moment, “Hmm...a bundle of fun that one. To be sure she would be boundless and up for almost anything. Dwarven women are supposed to be as tireless as the males so I hear. Interesting, but complicated in the end.” Clarifying before she could ask, “She has needs _amora_ that would breed entanglements, and is deserving of someone who would be prepared to give her more than a good time.”

Lyna supposed she could see that. The dwarva was sweet, and sharp as a honed blade – but there was an underlying vulnerability that wasn't apparent at first blush, well covered as it was by her optimistic demeanor. In all actuality Sigrun reminded Lyna of Zevran more than Anders ever could. 

“Nathaniel then, he is a rather dark sort if one is into that.” Zevran feigned a swoon, the back of his hand draped over his forehead, eyes to the ceiling, “Oh so handsome and brooding, from a noble family laid low by dishonour – even as he struggles valiantly to regain it!” Snorting, “Our little sonstress would love him, yes?”

Lyna liked Nathaniel, but the reminder of his 'nobility' left a bitter taste in her mouth, “Yes she would.”

“But not you?” sounding as if he were taken by surprise. “Truly?”

“No. What about you? Wouldn't you like the cut of his features?” wishing to deflect, to not be on the receiving end of the thought of Howe in any way involved with her intimately.

The answer was swift, “No, I have had enough with dark Ferelden _shemlin_ assassins. I have found the taste of their presence in my life to be...lacking refinement and entirely uncouth.”

Blinking Lyna had to reach into memory of what Zevran could be talking about. And then she remembered. Taliesin. Knowing that at one point the two had been friends – and more – Lyna wondered if Zevran ever suspected that Taliesin may have known of Rinna's innocence. He had seemed the cruel and possessive type and she wouldn't put it past the dead Crow.

“Perhaps Ogrhen would be better suited?” hoping to bring the smile back to the assassin's face.

Scoffing, even as the hard cast to his features slipped away, “I would sooner bed a rotting corpse! It would smell better.”

Pointing out, waving the odd scraping tool about, “Well we do have one of those standing around if you'll recall, he's hard to miss.”

“ _Please_ , even I am not that deviant _amora_ ,” it was his turn to roll his eyes. 

“Well if not a rotting corpse, what of Velanna?” asking about the gorgeous elf. 

If there was anyone that Lyna actually envied for their looks, it was the Dalish Keeper trained mage. She had a body that even Lyna knew would draw the eyes of others, and while the Warden had never exactly _wanted_ to be looked at like an object...if she had to be one, then Lyna would wish to have such a figure. And ever since she was a small girl, Lyna had wished her hair was not so dark, but rather soft and flaxen. 

Zevran tapped his chin in a rapid tattoo of fingers, “She is elven, and that would be nice. So often I am the shorter one, and it does appeal to me to be the tall one every now and then.”

“I sense a 'but',” secretly thrilled that Zevran didn't appear to have any interest in the mage than height difference.

Shrugging eloquently, “But she would be all hissing and spitting and clawing like the wild beast she is. It has its place, yet that is what I most often have come across and have long since tired of it.” His expression turned sly, “Now though, I would not mind seeing an encounter between you and she, preferably in some forest glen, wrestling like wild things. And all the better if mud is involved...”

Lyna switched to Zevran's other foot, “Right, so if I just happen to take leave of my senses and decide to play for the other side, you'll want to be notified of Velanna and I acting on primal urges and getting in touch with our elven natures. Just so you know –“ leveling a finger at him, eyebrow cocked, “never happening.”

Pouting entirely too convincingly like a little boy denied his fun, “I would not have to join in _amora_ , I would be content to watch... Then again, can you blame a man for his idle fantasies?”

Shaking her head in amused disbelief, “How did we get onto this topic anyway Zev?”

“Oh I was merely trying to find out who you might find to be suitable company for any needs you may have,” and Lyna picked up on the undercurrent of tension in the Antivan, no matter his apparent relaxed state.

Now that she had the hang of the callus remover, the work on his second foot went far more quickly than the first. Taking the time to think about why Zevran would bring up her 'needs', Lyna was aware she would have to tread carefully. They were still on shaky ground even though they had fallen back into the easy camaraderie they shared in Antiva. With the notable exception that they no longer shared quarters. Yes, she could seek Zevran out and would be welcomed into his bed if the nightmares were too much to handle alone, but other than that, she was banished from such an intimate role in his life.

Just because he called her _'amora'_ , and she used his name however she chose – didn't mean that they had resumed the life they had before. Old habits were hard to shake free of, especially when it was all either one had to hold onto. So Lyna tried not to read anything into Zevran's questions.

Fixing her gaze on the sharp bone that jutted from the surprisingly thick ankle, “It would be inappropriate for me to find any gratification amongst the rank and file, Zev. So I hadn't thought about it. A Warden Commander isn't allowed to have 'needs'.”

“Ah, is that so?” Zevran leaned forward enough so he could cup her chin. “I beg to differ, _amora_. You are mortal, as are we all, you are made of flesh and blood. Do you not eat? Sleep?” 

Lyna snorted in derision, “On the last thing? Not much.”

“Oh, but I can attest personally to your being a creature of needs,” his voice soft, hypnotic. “Has your sleep been more troubled of late _amora_?” A freshly trimmed nail stroked the faded circle under her left eye, “I see that it has.” Closer still, near enough that Lyna could feel his breath on her cheek, smell the tea he had drunk earlier, “What shall you do about your needs _amora_? Shall you continue to ignore them?”

“I suppose you have a solution,” lids falling closed to block the image of intense golden eyes focusing on her with undeniable force. “But my needs are unimportant, they can be held at bay in favor of seeing to what is necessary.”

Voice dropping an octave, “Then what of _my_ needs?” 

“I suppose it has been awhile since you've last had to deal with a target,” biting the inside of her cheek, Lyna refused to open her eyes or to move either into Zevran's touch or away from it. “Except there's nothing stopping you from looking for whatever you need, Zev.”

“Hmm, I think I see now,” Lyna could almost feel his lips on her cheek, only a hairsbreadth between Zevran's velvet soft mouth and her skin. “You believe that I have had many partners since meeting you, my dear. That I have lain with targets before slaying them at the very least, if not having sought out company elsewhere.”

That hit a nerve Lyna hadn't been aware was raw, “And didn't you?”

“No, I have not done such in many years now. Where once I mocked Leliana for how long she foreswore companionship, if I were to add up all the time I have done the same - it would possibly exceed her two years,” forehead pressed to her cheek now, and Lyna relinquished his foot. “However, that is not to say that I did not do the minimum necessary to gain access to their throats, but beyond that – no. I have not lain with any other.”

Any other than herself.

' _Siempre fiel_ ', apparently being 'always faithful' meant more than simple loyalty. Not that there was anything _simple_ about Zevran and his devotion. Oh how easy it would be to just use him, yet that went against everything Lyna had learned to be. Constantly for the last four years she had woken up each morning admonishing herself to be watchful, to be cautious of hurting Zevran, of using him to just tear chunks of him off to stuff into the holes that sat empty and waiting in her soul. 

“Fine, so why don't you tend to your needs? I'm not keeping you from them, I never have,” urging him to take the out she was offering. 

Zevran deserved to have someone whole, not someone who _was_ a hole.

Quiet huffing laughter and then the assassin was dragging her into his lap, and Lyna didn't want to fight him, it had been a week since she had last been held so tight. It was startling to realize how much she had lost when Zevran and she weren't as close as they had been, “I do believe that this is what we are trying to establish, since your needs mean little to you, we shall approach this from the route of my needs instead, _amora._ ”

“And what...exactly _do_ you need?” hesitating, the little voice inside her head yelling to get up, reminding her that she had only ever taken from Zevran, and that the one time she _tried_ to give what she had...failed spectacularly. 

“Hmm, I have a need for _companionship_ , the touch of flesh to flesh,” moistened lips moved against the shell of her ear as he spoke. Forestalling Lyna who was about to tell him that he could have that from her if he really wanted to, sharp teeth nipped at her lobe, before continuing, “It may not be a thing undertaken when wild with drink, or a perfunctory act for simple animal release. I can achieve that with my own hand, and have done well enough with that for near five years.”

Shuddering, Lyna pressed at Zevran's shoulders so she could look him in the eye, “Alright, no drinking.” One of his brows arched, waiting, and Lyna added in a rush, “No quickies either.”

“Such encounters will take place here, in your quarters so that afterward you may not flee,” features stern. “And if you must leave, you will awaken me if I do not rise automatically.”

Chewing her lip, Lyna squirmed. This felt altogether strange. Here she was making some sort of...deal. For sex. With _Zevran_ , and somehow Lyna thought she should feel horrible about it. Rather she felt relieved. He was taking the burden off of her shoulders, and forcing the issue when she couldn't do so herself.

“I can do that,” agreeing, albeit reluctantly. “So, um...when would you like to...?”

Zevran relaxed, arms loosening their death grip around her, the tension no longer pouring off of him in waves, “Soon, not tonight. But soon.” A rueful twist of a smile, “I would not wish to touch you while I am so rough around the edges, _amora._ ”

Sealing the deal with a kiss on his cheek, “ _Como desees guapo.”_

XXX

 

Vigil's Keep was drafty, cold and damp, and that was when the weather was halfway decent. On an evening like the one that Zevran was currently dealing with – steel gray skies, fat black clouds and gusting wind – that meant that the Keep was far worse. And the company wasn't much better, Justice walking a pace or two behind Zevran which made the assassin's palms itch for the handle of a blade at such dangerous proximity. 

Up the steps into the bleak fortress – must all buildings in Ferelden be dark and foreboding? - Zevran stalked, ignoring Velanna and Justice as best he could for the moment. Soon he would be able to check in on Lyna, except first he must extricate himself from his two companions. And after that he would have to speak with Nathaniel. And after that Varel. And after that - he would need to bathe.

And after _that_ – he could see his Warden.

Maybe.

 _If_ no one came running to him for instruction like lost little children screaming for their papa to fix it.

Pinching the bridge of his long nose, Zevran groaned mentally. Such lengthy patrols he had to conduct, the highly limited forces of the Wardens consisting of bitter, untried, drunk, dead or – in the Antivan's estimation – stupid, persons, with only a few who were actually competent, meant that he had his work constantly cut out for him. Zevran didn't know how Lyna did it. She would simply approach every problem as if it were a simple grocery run, and picked the best people for the job with quick mental calculations. How the former Crow longed for his Warden to be recovered, so that he could return to the days of only doing as he was told, and operating as her tool rather than having to shoulder the bulk of the responsibility. 

Zevran bowed his goodbyes upon arriving into the main hall, “Rest well my friends, for I shall see you tomorrow.”

“When will the Commander be taking over again?” Velanna casually asked halting his exit, hiding a hint of concern. Poorly of course, as her social graces were as lacking as Justice's.

“As soon as she is able, woman,” Justice intoned. “You flesh beings are not built to withstand several direct lightening strikes.”

Jaw muscles tensing at the reminder of the ghostly electricity charged high dragon, Zevran kept his voice even, “Alas, we are not all so well equipped as yourself. But Anders is taking care of the Commander at the moment, and so I trust she is in good hands. Now, I must take my leave, I have other duties to attend to.” 

Velanna looked as if she wished to say something further, but Zevran escaped as quickly as decorum would allow. Varel was the first person he came upon and decided that the dignified man looked as harried as he felt. That only meant bad news. Nathaniel could wait.

Raising a hand in quick greeting, “A good drink would do us some good, no?”

“Ah, Master Arainai, I trust your patrol went well?” steel gray hair, armored even indoors within an inch of his life. 

Shrugging, “Well enough. Shall we dispense with pleasantries? It seems there must be something going on if your expression is anything to go by.”

Varel shook his head, the haggard cast to his face becoming more pronounced, “I have just received word from Weisshaupt that they think it unwise to send any Orelsian Wardens to assist in replenishing their numbers in Ferelden.”

The splitting headache that had been waiting in the wings came on Zevran like a sirocco. Merciless and painful. That was dire news indeed, and while the Wardens were supposed to be apolitical the reality was, that Fereldens wouldn't welcome an influx of foreigners. No matter that other than King Alistair and Lyna there were only six Wardens in Ferelden – Weisshaupt couldn't risk the backlash of the beaten and nervous population that would arise from sending the nearby Orlesians in to aid. And he didn't relish any Antivan Wardens arriving - they would likely be Crows.

Masking his own worry, “Do not fret my dear Seneschal, the Blight itself was faced by far fewer than the number of Wardens that we have currently. Our dear Commander is expert in navigating these things.” Waving a hand, “Politics, darkspawn, the Archdemon and civil war have not laid her low but for a few injuries. This is nothing.” Clapping Varel on the shoulder, “At least this time we have much less worry for where meals come next, where we shall sleep, and whether or not Alistair had cooking duty.”

“As you say Master Arainai,” Varel oozed discomfort as he shifted foot to foot beside Zevran who had left his hand on the _shemlin's_ shoulder. “I shall trust your word on it.”

Squeezing the metal clad shoulder with a hint of warning, “Hmm, yes then. Are there any other pressing matters? No?” 

Varel was no fool and understood the velvet tone, “Ah, no, Master Arainai, there are none.”

“Good,” smiling broadly, Zevran left to speak with Lyna about the new developments. 

Again, Nathaniel could wait. As could Zevran's bath. Lyna would need to know how little assistance she would be receiving from outside, and adjust her instructions to him accordingly.

Spying Sigrun as she wandered from the library, laden with books, Zevran spared the dwarva a moment. She was one of the few recruits that didn't rub him the wrong way, easily slipping into the armor he wore that kept most at armslength. All the other Wardens – excluding Ogrhen – tried too hard to replace he and Lyna's old companions, creating an undercurrent of tension that aggravated Zevran to no end. Two years filled with hardships, joys and general annoyances had forged bonds that were not the sort to be cast aside or refilled with the ease of snapped fingers. But the dwarf attempted none of that, only acted as herself, and in the interests of the group.

“Oh you look like death warmed over Zev!” head tipped back, the tattoos on her face wrinkling as her cheeks pinched into one of her typically huge grins. “That bad, huh?”

“Yes, and it only appears that the numbers of darkspawn are increasing,” shaking his head, carefully pacing his stride to match the dwarva's shorter one. “Amongst other irritating factors.”

Sigrun shifted her armload of books, head cocked, one of the short pigtails brushing her shoulder in the motion, “So just another day? This is why I'm dead I swear, takes all the worry out of living.”

“Rather lively for a dead woman,” unable to keep a smile from his face, Zevran relaxed, thankful for at least one person who made no demands on his time, but rather shared experience in the day to day while keeping upbeat. It had always been up to him to be the one who smiled on and on without a break, to keep up the morale of the group – and primarily Lyna. “Perhaps I too should have a funeral.”

“That would be fun, get the booze flowing, and everyone so tossed that they dance naked.” Sigrun paused at the foot of the stairs that lead up to the private quarters, “I'd pay good money to see Nate in his naturals doing the oh...what's a Fereldan dance? Other than the Remigold....”

Zevran laughed, “I know of none! But in Antiva when there was a celebration, or everyone became utterly soused for no reason, we would get...lively to say the least.” Gesturing for Sigrun to proceed ahead of him up the stairs, “I am rather fond of lavoltas myself, but I do not think I would wish to do such with good Howe.”

“Oh sounds like it must be really dirty if you wouldn't do it with him,” giggling. “And right up my alley.”

Shrugging a shoulder and raising a brow, “Not much is not up your alley I would think.” Stopping at Sigrun's door and opening it for her, “But I shall take my leave and hope to scrub the image of lifting a naked Nathaniel Howe up in the air in lavolta from my mind.” Making a face, “Actually if you happen to see Howe, please inform him that I need to speak with him soon about a pressing matter.”

Now that the minor pleasantry of spending time with a fellow rogue was done, Zevran braced himself, ordering the list of items that needed going over with Lyna in order of importance. First off a debriefing on the trip to Amaranthine, then the patrol, and then the sour news from Weisshaupt. Entering Lyna's quarters and halting in the foyer, the assassin's ears perked, hearing a male voice coming from within.

“Yes, I do have magic hands, don't I?” tone full of self-depreciating smirking. The voice clearly belonged to Anders, and continued, “So, now that I've done my magical healer schtick, can I just get on with laying my hands on you yet as reward for having you patched all the way up now?”

Zevran twitched, but held off storming into the Arlessa's inner rooms. But only just. He was too anxious to see how Lyna would react, needing to know exactly how much he would have to overcome. It had been several weeks since their conversation on 'needs' as one thing or another would come up – not the least of which was his elven lady's injury – before they had been able to establish a pattern to their encounters. And Anders, who so closely resembled Alistair, was the one person Zevran was sure had some chance to win Lyna's affections. As much as his Warden had been hurt by the King, there had been love for him, too much to be truly swept away by pain and several years. So Anders, who Lyna had said was unsuitable, who was a combination of himself and Alistair...may yet win something from Lyna anyway with his looks and manner.

There was an amused grunt, “I would say 'in your dreams' but since you're a mage, and mages can play so much with the Fade - I suppose I should say, 'not a chance' magic-boy.”

“Oooh, too bad Warden, your loss then!” Anders laughed in good nature, and Zevran sighed with relief pressing a hand to the stone wall for support. “It's really, truly a shame, see I can do this thing that would make you see sparks.”

“I'm sure, and I'll take it under advisement, but really -” the sounds of bodies moving around, and a rough smack of hand to what was probably a shoulder or back, “I've no desire to see stars other than those that hang in a night sky, thank you very much.”

Lyna was clearly unmoved by the Spirit Healer. 

Entering as if he hadn't been eavesdropping, cutting through the air with confident self-assurance firmly in place, Zevran ignored the wealthy appointments, “My dear Warden, I have returned from tripping the light fantastic, wild forays into the swamps and braved the streets of gray Amaranthine, to bring tidings!”

“Oh goody! What I always wanted, an Antivan suitor,” Anders quipped, arms crossing, weight balanced on a foot. “But you should know I call top. I play bitch to no man.”

Beside the mage Lyna covered her mouth with a hand, shoulders shaking, even as Zevran shot off a rejoinder, unwilling to be put off by an upstart, “Marvelous, I have always felt receiving was better than giving. Later perhaps I shall visit you then? I will make sure to bring the various accoutrements necessary for a memorable evening.” Clapping his hands together sharply, “It is decided then, but I must warn you that my stamina is rather high, and my tastes on the wilder side of things. This does not disturb you, no?”

Anders eyes went momentarily wide before narrowing, “Probably no stranger than anything I've ever come across. There isn't much else to do in the Tower other than further one's studies.”

“Enough,” Lyna shook her head eyes rolling, gesturing dismissively. “Take your mating dance elsewhere before the images make me loose my lunch. Either that or take them out and measure yourselves, to see who is the bigger man, but whatever you do – please take it from my quarters, I'm a delicate flower who has little knowledge of such matters, nor care to learn more firsthand.” Nose crinkling, pointing to the water closet where the only good part of having noble's quarters rested, “And Maker's Breath Zev, bathe first, you're filthy.”

Zevran took that opportunity to step closer to Anders, cupping his chin and giving the mage a thorough once over, from head to toe and back, “Hmm...well then. As I need a bath, and there is one so nearby, perhaps you would care to join me?”

Zevran had no true intention of doing anything with the mage, but was more than willing to go as far as needed to prove dominance in this arena. No one played a game of bluffs with him of this nature and won. Surmising that it wouldn't take much more pushing on his part to press the younger man into giving up the game, Zevran waited for Anders' next volly.

Anders still attempted to draw a win from the contest of wills shrugged, “Sounds fine by me. Lead on.”

It was all that Zevran needed to reach out and grab Anders' crotch, forcefully pulling him to the water closet, “Excellent!”

“Hey – hey careful with the goods!” there was resistance to his hold, but Zevran was implacable. 

Besides, he wished to lay things out clearly for Anders. Gaining the washroom, Lyna's disbelieving laughter following them before being shut off by the heavy door, Zevran swung Anders around pressing his back to the wall. The Circle mage's expression was guarded, and Zevran realized he'd have to continue to get him to cease the struggle for dominance. Mentally rolling his eyes at the man's stubbornness, Zevran began disrobing, allowing the mage to take that however he willed. 

Almost absentmindedly, shucking armor, “Do you know who you remind me of Anders?”

“I remind you of someone?” Anders stayed where Zevran had put him, watching the Antivan with a hefty dose of suspicion.

“Hmm, yes. Of dear Alistair, I always wanted to fuck that Chantry boy into submission,” cutting a glance at Anders. “You see, I know that you say you wish to take top, but you so closely resemble him that I think it may not be possible. He was Lyna's lover for so long, and he did do our sweet Warden Commander so dirty, that I find myself cross with him. And since I cannot punish him, I shall punish you as a stand-in. Fair, no?”

“Alistair? As in _King_ Alistair? Monarch of Ferelden?” the casual facade crumbled on Anders' face, showing shock.

Completely naked, Zevran leaned down, turning on the bath so that it would fill, “Yes, King Alistair, but I knew him long before he gained such a vaunted title. You see elves are not considered acceptable partners, let alone _wives_ for such as a Ferleden king. Not by polite society.” Turning and resting against the lip of the tub as it filled behind him, Zevran crossed his legs at the ankles, “And so he and Lyna ended their romance. As if that were not enough, when my merciful Warden spared Loghain's life making him a Warden – well. Alistair did not take it so well, and was quite vile to her. So, as you would expect of one so devoted as myself to my fairest Lyna – I am angry with him.”

“And Lyna, is she still...” curiously stumbling, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

“Quite. She detests him, and all those like him, you wonder why it is that she avoids Howe? He is _shemlin_ , as are you, and as a an added bonus, you look much like Alistair,” waving a hand as if he were leading Anders to the obvious conclusion. “Would that not mean she detests you to some degree?”

Anders shifted uncomfortably, “You're telling me to back off.”

“For your own good, yes,” nodding. “Let us keep this between friends Anders, before anyone gets hurt.”

Now Anders drew himself up, shoulders squaring as he leaned forward, the resemblance uncanny to the bastard King, so much so that Zevran wondered if Maric hadn't had any other... indiscretions lying about, “You're threatening me. It's not as if you and she are together. Shouldn't any decision be left up to the Commander?”

Snorting, Zevran slid into the tub, “No threat. I was speaking of Lyna's hurt. If you keep pressing a clearly undesired suit, I will be forced to act in her defense. Which will hurt her, as she is a good sort. Me? Much less so, mercy for me is only acting quickly and without excessive cruelty.”

“So all this -” waving at the pile of discarded armor and Zevran lounging indolently in the tub, “was to prove a point.”

Chuckling, grabbing the bar of sandalwood scented soap and lathering it, “I knew you were a sharp one.” Jerking his head at the door, “You may leave now. And if you could be so kind, send Lyna in.” Quirking a brow, “Unless of course you want me to fuck you into submission? I can do that, just hop in.”

“Ah I think I'll pass,” holding his hands up, conceding defeat. 

Mostly clean by the time Lyna entered, Zevran glanced up at her waiting patiently. 

She came to sit on the side of the tub, taking the bar of soap from him so she could wash his hair, “Anders left in a hurry.”

“Hmm, yes. It seems he was not as game as he acted,” leaning into the Warden's touch almost purring at the sensation of her soapy fingers massaging his scalp.

“I wonder if he knew that you weren't interested much,” scooping handfuls of water beginning to rinse his blond locks.

Closing his eyes, Zevran slumped deeper into the tub, “Mph, boys should not think to match wits with such as I.” Lyna was leaning over him further, fingers digging into his chest, rubbing away the tension, as Zevran went on, “True I would have given him a scare if need be. You may thank me suitably now for fending off the unwanted suitor by the way.”

Lyna pushed on his shoulders, dunking him, and as he popped back up spluttering, “You're terrible, you know that, right?”

“Mph, you love me anyway,” grabbing Lyna by the waist and hauling her into the tub in retaliation. “It is my rapscallion manner that ensures you never rid yourself of me, no?”

She was drenched and squealing, flailing as he held her tight in the water not allowing her to escape, “Zev! LemmegoorIswearI'll -”

Zevran cut off the running together words, rolling in the tub along with her, the water sloshing over the side and holding her under him. More squeaks and threats were quickly put an end to when he pressed closer sucking at her lip before giving it a hard nip. Releasing her waist, the assassin braced his hands on the back of the tub, holding himself free of his little Alienage elf, who was currently staring at him wide eyed.

“I hear tell that you are fully recovered,” hovering, giving Lyna room to move from the tub if she wished to, but she would have to rub against him to do so. “And there is a particular matter of an agreement that I wish to... _discuss_ with you, _amora_.”

“How long were you listening at the door?” motionless, searching him, and Zevran worked hard to show her whatever it was she wanted. 

Tipping his head to one side, “Long enough to hear the good news, and to hear that the mage was being bothersome.” Pushing a strand of wet hair from where it had fallen into his eyes, “You need worry over him no longer, and any further wordplay will be only that – play.”

“You didn't have to, Zev,” her shirt was soaked, revealing the unbound breasts as clearly as if it wasn't there at all, which tempted him to change his gaze from her kind eyes, but he refrained. “I didn't have any interest in him anyway. You know that.”

“Truly? Hmm, but I do recall a matter of promising to fend off unwanted suitors,” relieved by her clear admission. “And since your interest does not lay with him, does it still lay at all with me?”

Zevran allowed her to slip from the tub, sitting on the edge, and Zevran wrapped balancing arms around her, holding Lyna in place gently, while she stroked his hands, “You still want my...companionship?”

Twisting so he was sitting rather than stretched on his stomach, he nuzzled at a legging covered thigh, “ _Si amora_ , as we had discussed, if you are of a mind.”

She chewed her lip then as he watched, praying silently that it was him that she still found to be 'of interest', removed her shirt allowing it to land on the floor with a wet 'plop'. That was all the answer he needed, and Zevran set about helping her free of her leggings which were also tossed to the floor. Nudging at her knees, Zevran spread her legs so he could lean in and breathe in the dampness there. Zevran couldn't bring himself to actually do much kissing for foreplay, it felt too intimate, and if this was only to be a meeting of mutual needs, he didn't want to invest too many of his emotions. For they were raw, even still these months later, and until Lyna was ready, he would hold himself back just the tiniest amount. But that didn't mean he would forswear fully enjoying every inch of Lyna's body and giving her as much pleasure in the acts as he was capable of.

“Shouldn't we go to the bedroom?” his Warden suggested.

Zevran just grunted, rubbing a cheek to the soft flesh of her inner thigh, “And give up this fortuitous position I have you in? No, I think not.”

Lyna sighed overhead, petting his shoulders, while he began licking at the water on her legs, aiming for her sex. Pulling one of her legs over his shoulder, tipping Lyna back so that all that supported her was the strength of his hold and the stone lip of the tub in the small of her back, Zevran probed her nether lips with his tongue. Above there was a tiny gasp that became a sigh as he swirled the tip of his tongue over her pearl before dragging it down to her entrance and stabbing it once. Back and forth from her opening to the nubbin Zevran rocked the wet muscle against her, his sweet, damaged Alienage elf beginning to quietly moan overhead. 

The long years as a Crow had imparted several lifesaving habits in the assassin, for he was never unarmed, even in the bath, two small daggers always near to hand. So when the bathroom's door began to creak open during the act of pleasuring Lyna, Zevran didn't even think, reacting on pure instinct, grabbing one of the weapons and throwing it. With a loud 'cu-thunk' the blade buried itself in the lintel, beside the startled face of Nathaniel Howe as Zevran swiftly burst from the bath, the other weapon in hand, ready to attack.

Registering who it was just as he was pulling back to strike, Zevran growled, “What is it?”

“Ah,” the nobleman turned beet red, seeing the bathroom and its occupants. “Ah, um. Sigrun. Ah, she said.” Eyes locked and wide on Zevran and, if the sound of sluicing water was any indicator, Lyna, the Howe stammered inelegantly, “Sigrun said that you, ah, needed to talk to me?”

Reaching out, Zevran jerked the still vibrating dagger from the doorway, brandishing it under Nathaniel's nose, “And you did not think to knock? Upon what you knew was the bath?” Tutting, “Were you never taught any manners?”

A shame filled blush, and a cast glance down to his feet, “I didn't know the Commander was here. I thought it would only be you.”

“Well, it is not. A moment, and I shall speak with you,” rubbing the hilt of a dagger into his temple as if to banish the headache that had come back with a vengeance. “And next time – knock! Even if it had been only myself in here, if I had not realized it was you, dear Nathaniel, I would have skinned you without thought!”

Zevran was put out in the extreme, but gathered calm about him like a cloak. Nathaniel stammered further apologies as he left the bathroom, but the assassin ignored the _shemlin_ , not sure he had the patience to actually be polite if he had to _speak._ Laying his head against the large, oaken door when it was closed once more, Zevran counted to ten several times. 

His temper slipped free when he felt Lyna's gentle hands on the backs of his shoulders, and he snarled into the wood, _“Braska! Que me jodan! Muy estupida, cabron!”_

“Hush now,” lips met a shoulder blade, arms going around his waist, wet, naked, flesh pressing along his spine. “What's done is done. Go deal with him, and I'll clean up the bath.” Another kiss, this time to the back of his neck, “Maybe I'll even refill it and be waiting for you?”

Sucking in a sharp breath, “Ah, now that would be suitable thanks for dealing with these headache inducing _shems._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Braska! Que me jodan! Muy estupida, cabron! - Fuck me! Stupid asshole!


	4. Quilt of Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Lyna decides to do something, she damn well does it.

Lyna roused slowly to the sensation of breath on her face. Blinking the fuzz of sleep away, she realized she was on her side facing Zevran, tangled and wrapped around him tightly. They were nose to nose, almost kissing their faces were so close on the shared pillow. His blond hair was a spilled mane that was partially draped over her forearm, one long piece wrapping around up to her elbow. Extricating herself would be difficult without assistance if she didn't wish to yank on the luxurious locks. Not once in the five years she had known the Antivan had he done more than trim the dead ends off after she mentioned she was curious to see how long his hair could grow. In reply he had shrugged and announced that up until his early twenties he had never cut it, so it had hung to his waistband. Then during a job the long tail had gotten caught on a trellis and Taliesen had to remove it so Zevran could get free of their target's home before discovery.

And so he had carefully let it grow back out, much to Lyna's delight, wearing the long hair bound up tightly at the nape of his neck in a queue that folded in on itself when they were on assignments for the Crows. Otherwise it would sway back and forth with each of his strides, a hypnotic rope of gold that was one of the things Lyna would always reach out and play with at every opportunity. When they would take time to relax he would let it down so that she could brush it over and over, usually while he read aloud. 

The handsome elf sighed in his sleep, shifting closer, face nuzzling against her before settling once more. Lyna smiled at Zevran, feeling suddenly full at the tiny details that presented themselves to her. In sleep Zevran's brow would furrow then smooth back out, the tendons around his mouth standing in relief before relaxing in the rhythm of dreams. Drawn to the corner of full lips, Lyna pressed a tiny kiss there. It had been a long time since she had him this close and in her arms like this. Not since Antiva. 

Carefully Lyna started to massage his scalp, not really wanting to prod him to wakefulness. Generally he was the first one rise, so she rarely got the chance to simply examine him in this way. Zevran was as peaceful as he ever got, the many barriers and masks he wore gone from his visage, allowing her, and her alone, to see him vulnerable. Lyna wondered if he had ever done that for anyone else – perhaps Rinna, but he had said that he didn't understand or know what love was at that time. So maybe he hadn't ever relaxed enough to let her see him in such a state. 

One of his hands was cupping her bottom, keeping her close, and it flexed in his sleep as she gave him another small kiss, this time on his chin. The assassin made a muffled sound, but Lyna soothed him back to sleep with a coo that settled him down once more. At some time they had developed this habit when partially asleep of making noises at the other to ensure that the other one was there. A little coo or hum would come from one or the other, which would be answered, reassuring each that they weren't alone so that they could slip fully back into the Fade. In the months since they left Antiva, Lyna had found she missed it, and would jerk awake sweating and shaking in fear when there was no answering call to hers. 

Slowly shifting her leg where it was locked between his, Lyna wiggled the arm she was laying on under the pillow, supporting his head and tucking him so his face rested against her throat. His breathing tickled her, but Lyna reveled in the simple joy of holding him tight. Unlike when things had gone south with Alistair, Lyna missed Zevran's weight near her in the bed, his warmth, and the smell of his skin. With Alistair, Lyna had only felt the almost Templar's absence for a short time before welcoming the fact that the _shemlin_ no longer shared her bed. As for Zevran – Lyna found that she couldn't sleep well at all without him there. 

Once she had told the bronzed elf that she missed the sound of someone cared for breathing nearby, and that that was all she missed of Alistair. She hadn't _needed_ Alistair the same way. Musing, Lyna knew that Zevran could never _replace_ Alistair, which was what she had _always_ known. At the time she had thought that that meant she should ignore the siren call of his voice, his skin, his scent, and the way it felt to be in his arms. For she wanted a replacement – as Alistair had been the only caring lover she had ever encountered, unaware that she could expect more than what the knight had given her.

Very cautiously, Lyna rolled onto her back, pulling Zevran along with her so she could keep holding him close. He gave a quiet murmur, arching and rubbing against her, his morning arousal heavy where it lay on her hip. Humming at him some more, Lyna stared at the ceiling above them, stroking one broad shoulder, still massaging his scalp with her other hand. Thoughts of the man in her arms made a swelling emotion grow in her chest, the tiny things they shared together making her ache for want of him.

So long spent without Zevran's proximity forced Lyna to confront certain things now that she could think calmly and without interruption. For the first time in months she had slept soundly, without nightmares, only with the company of dreams. Some of them had been overtly sexual, others shatteringly beautiful for their humbleness. One had been of Zevran, with her kneeling at his feet as she so often did, but bringing him to pleasure again and again, the sounds of his desire, and his willing gift of granting her full control, the trust it implied causing the dream to spiral almost out of bounds. Another, the last one that Lyna could clearly remember, was of them sitting back to back, heads resting on the others' shoulder while simply _talking._ Lyna couldn't remember what they had talked about in the dream, it hadn't been important. Just the feeling of satisfied peace was all that mattered. 

The dreams themselves hadn't been all that unusual, and not out of the realm of real possibility. All Lyna had to do was accept it. She knew that Zevran had been holding himself aloof of her since the fiasco in Antiva, even though he had long since ceased to hold himself so far away as on the _Swift Mabari_. And now that Lyna was thinking on it, she was quite sure she didn't _want_ him to anymore. Not at all. What she wanted exactly Lyna wasn't entirely sure of, but she didn't want him holding back.

But that made her wonder what she could do to change that, to let him know what she wanted. First she would have to earn that chance, Lyna was quite aware she had wounded him, probably more than she had ever hurt another person ever. Zevran wouldn't reject any physical advances she made, this Lyna knew with certainty, but would he accept overtures of love?

If that's what she felt for him that is.

Tilting her head down, tucking her chin into her chest, to look at him balled up around her like a large cat, Lyna was surprised to realize that yes – she did love him. It was utterly different than Alistair, for she had been so young, so wounded that she had believed that the infatuation she had was real love. Strong love that would allow her to take leaving him so he could be king and have the life that he was destined for. Knowing now that what she held for Alistair was only the desperate need to feel valued by someone, and not anywhere near what was held in her heart for the Crow in her arms, Lyna understood she had to find some way to woo Zevran back.

Even when she had first known the Antivan, Lyna had felt drawn. He was as wounded, if not more so, than herself. And Lyna had wanted to ease his pain, that look in his eyes that was guarded, wishing nothing more than someone to be kind to him, but waiting for the kick to take place of any desired compassion. Zevran had reminded her of herself, but of a version that was still willing to work for love, to hope for it. As Zevran had said often enough – he was an eternal optimist.

When she had given him those Dalish gloves – the ones she knew were kept under the pillow in his room, carefully preserved against wear – Lyna had wanted to cry when she caught his shocked, almost _angry_ expression. As if she would demand something of him in return. Yes, she said she only wanted a smile, but really what Lyna had wanted was to reach out and touch his cheek, and simply tell him that he was safe. Funnily, that was the very thing Lyna had wanted for years, for someone to tell her she was safe, that at least _one_ person would never hurt her, never make selfish demands of her. 

Now Lyna felt incredibly stupid. Here had been this man, who had waited and waited, holding out both hands to help her no matter how much she slapped them away, and Lyna had been unwilling to _look_ at him. To _believe_ she was worth being helped, and too _afraid_ to try. But Zevran had continued to try, to stay by her side, to follow her, to give her everything she needed, only ever asking one thing of her – that there be some hope of more between them. Amongst the gifts he constantly gave her was the thing she had needed most: time. However, Lyna knew time wasn't something she had much of. 

Wiggling under the rumpled covers, Lyna pondered how to go about it. Should she just say 'Zev - I'm ready, I want more, and I want to give more'? He always teased her about how direct she was. It was his philosophy that rogues weren't supposed to be direct, that such as themselves should approach from the back or side so as to avoid any unnecessary resistance from a target. Zevran was always saying that rogues did it from behind – double entandres always intended when coming from him. It was the way of their life, a way of thinking of how to out maneuver danger. So if she was direct with the Antivan, would he believe it? Yet if she went about things the way he suggested, it would take so much time. And she had wasted enough of those precious few years she had.

Why did she have to be so _stubborn_ and _blind_ and _scared_?

Squeezing Zevran, Lyna wanted to have a good cry. She was frightened of how little time she would have with him, especially if it took her too long to win his trust once more. Perhaps she should just tell him, and then let him decide how he wanted to do things. It was generally her making the plans, deciding where everything went, what their next destination was – and let him take care of the leg work. 

“Mmn, thinking too loud, _amora_ ,” grumbling from her breast, Zevran rubbed his face into the flesh deeper, which drew a smile from Lyna.

Normally she was the one who was too comfortable to move when waking up. 

Crooning into his hair, hoping to slip a little hint into his mind, using endearments that she never had before, “Sorry _corazón_ , go back to sleep.”

“Mph, no?” one luminous topaz eye slipping open.

“Shh, rest Zev,” hugging him, begging him silently to let her hold him like this a little longer before having to face some sort of decision.

A low moan, and he rolled away from her, sprawling on his back, “You think too loudly, _amora_. I can feel the tension in you.” 

Turning to face him, Lyna passed a hand along his cheek, “I'm sorry. Just go back to sleep.”

“Mm, maybe,” lifting his head, he pinned her with a groggy stare. “Are you going anywhere?”

“No,” shaking her head, Lyna draped a leg over his. “I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here.”

He curled an arm around the small of her waist, dragging her to lay half atop him, “ _Bien._ ”

Laying her ear against his chest, Lyna closed her eyes listening to the steady beat of his heart. Zevran smelled faintly of the sex they had taken part in the evening before, and of sleep sweat, which had a totally different quality, almost of sun baked stucco and terracotta. He brought Antiva with him everywhere he went, and when Lyna had finally arrived in his homeland, Lyna had understood much of him then, and why he loved it so. The sun would reach every dark corner and fill it, sometimes it was oppressive, but there was no real room for cold. Even during winter, when the rains would make the skies steel gray, and the temperature would plunge so far that frost formed on puddles in the morning, Antiva had this sunny quality. It was held in the buildings, stored up for the winter months, in the people, in the greetings and smiles everyone gave to those who passed by. 

Even the Crows were things of heat. Like blades freshly annealed and sharpened, ready to be used. Their hearts weren't cold, only taught to put their passions into things other than sentiment and love. Everything from the gaily painted buildings, or the tiles and frescoes, to the lowliest urchin, was warmth and sunlight given form. Zevran had warned her that she was painting his country of origin in too much of a romantic light, that it held many dark and horrible things, which Lyna knew. She had taken part in some of those very things that would cause every hair in her father's head to fall out and stop his heart in shame.

That didn't change the fact that Antiva was all elemental fire – it could either warm or burn, sear or save. 

And Zevran was an elemental being, the only thing that gave Lyna the warmth to keep on through the frigid winter that Ferelden had always been for her. He was the one who had banished her winter, kept her warm and safe through the Blight, through everything that life threw at her. So the musk of his sweat tickled the memory and longing of _home_. She wanted to be back in their apartment, wanted to wake up to the smell of coffee from the cafe that was below them, the shouts of people in the streets calling back and forth. Even the little rodent like dogs that ate the trash in the poorer quarters of Antiva City, she wanted to hear them too. Lyna didn't want this dreary country that had taken so much of her away, giving nothing in return.

Tracing the outline of the tattoo that painted Zevran's pectoral with a fingernail, Lyna sighed. Maybe she should tell him first that she wanted to go home. And save telling him that she would be happy to give him anything he wanted, except her heart, because it wasn't free as it was already his. There was something she remembered from a conversation with Sten about the Qun, a concept of 'yin and yang', where two opposing things complimented each other, melded and made something greater than when those things stood alone. Well, Zevran was the yang to her yin, the heated shadow to her wintry light. 

Pushing herself up so she could gaze down on Zevran's sleeping countenance, Lyna wished nothing more than to wake him and tell him all her jumbled thoughts. He would understand them as no other ever could. But he was _sleeping_ again, and so, so peaceful. Which was what she wanted, but – even so, Lyna needed to see his eyes, to watch as he listened and thought over her words. Maybe he would tease her about the fact that all those thoughts revolved around him. Then again, maybe he wouldn't. 

Leaning down Lyna kissed his lips, marveling at how soft they were, when so little of Zevran was truly soft. He was whipcord muscle, sinew and bone and tendon, lean and swift, like a shining blade built to cut through anything that stood before him. The only soft part of Zevran was his heart inside its thick shell, but for her he wore it open and on his sleeve. Sliding over his waist, Lyna planted knees on either side of his hips, draping herself over him completely, arms wriggling under his shoulders as he awoke with soft murmurs of curious approval, nostrils flaring as he assessed who was touching him so. Smiling into his mouth, Lyna waited for him to part beneath the exploration in invitation, licking the inside of his mouth tasting his sleep.

“Mmm have a use for me this morning, _amora_?” muzzy, purring and sizzling tone of voice.

“And every morning, yes,” nodding, rubbing her nose against his. 

He blinked up at her, looking befuddled, even as she felt his hands stroking her back and sides. “Every morning you say?”

Not giving him time to think about it too much, Lyna rubbed where she ached to have him buried against the heat of his length. In reply Zevran arched, groaning, eyes sliding closed, fingers digging into her hips. Lyna lapped a trail on the side of his neck to his ear, blowing a jet of air into it before licking it slowly. This gained her a growl and bucked hips. Smile broadening, Lyna rocked against his manhood where it was trapped between them, feeling herself becoming wetter by the moment. 

Whispering into the shell of his ear, keeping her breasts pressed tight to him, “I want to kiss you breathless, until you see stars.”

“Why are you still talking then?” and Lyna felt him twist his legs so that they were crossed, ready to give her a platform to balance against for the deep thrusts she preferred.

Ignoring the silent offer, Lyna stroked his whole torso with hers once more. Moving to kiss him again, Lyna sipped at his lips, velvet against hers, the flesh of their bodies warming until the heat spread over her like a blanket. Zevran stilled, a hesitation beneath her before she felt him relax into this slow caress she was sharing with him. Last night had been affection and need, yet this morning was to be about something else entirely, and Lyna wouldn't run from it this time.

When he attempted to roll her onto her back, or pick her up by the hips so he could take over, Lyna only shook her head, continuing to kiss him, pushing on his shoulders gently. Tangling her hands in his hair, Lyna tipped his head back taking a different angle then moved to nuzzle at his throat, feathering her lips over the thick blood vessels there. A deep groan came as she licked the length of his windpipe up and down, the air moving within it thrumming against her tongue.

The hard line of muscle that was pressed against her belly flinched and tightened, “Lyna...”

Resting her weight on her elbows, rubbing his temples with her thumbs, _“Si corazón?”_

“What...are you doing?” she watched the apple of his throat bob up and down unsteadily, his eyes wide and open, verging on frightened. 

“Making love to you Zevran,” whispering as she stared into his eyes, imparting as much emotion to the gaze as she was capable of. “I want to make love to you Zevran, may I?”

A full body tremor rocked the man under her, and Zevran blinked several times before looking away then back, “ _Amora_ , I...”

Kissing Zevran's forehead, Lyna murmured, “Please Zev, I want to make love to you. I won't hurt you.”

A sharp barking laugh that was more of a strangled sob, “Lyna – I...cannot.”

“I won't hurt you,” repeating herself, Lyna slid from her knees so that she could lay fully against the length of his body. “I swear it Zevran, however I won't push you.”

Knowing that his arousal had to be painful, Lyna began to slither down him, but was stopped by the iron bands of his arms. He was crushing her to him, as if he were at war with dueling desires. Stilling, Lyna waited Zevran out, pressing her cheek to his. 

Beside her ear, she heard Zevran moistening his lips, “ _Amora,_ what is it you want from me? _Exactly_ what is it you wish of me?”

“You,” closing her eyes, listening to his ragged breathing. “I want to give to you, I want to take from you. I want to be home again, with you. I want to...” tripping over the words, for they were unfamiliar, “I want to love you and you to let me. I don't want you to hold back anymore, and I won't either.”

His jaw popped he was clenching his teeth so tight, “You do not know what you ask of me _amora_.” Zevran's nails were digging into her back, “I cannot trust it.”

Sagging, Lyna nodded her acceptance, “You can't trust me.” Moving to roll away, “I'll show you Zev, I promise. Somehow I’ll show you, and make you believe in me again.”

Zevran stopped her from pulling away from him, “ _Amora,_ I...Lyna this is...I am sleep-addled. Give me a moment.”

“Shh, you're not sleep-addled, you're worried I'll abandon you again,” reassuring him, Lyna kissed his cheeks, the corners of his eyes, the sides of his nose, his chin. “You're afraid I'll hurt you again. That I'll make you feel used.”

“You never used me,” vehement.

Wriggling so she could catch his eye, “I made you _feel_ used, and I know it. Don't pretend that you didn't, you've never lied to me before, don't start now.”

The muscles of his face twitched, relenting and voicing his agreement, “Yes. I felt used.”

“Not that it's any consolation, but I was frightened and unsure,” petting the crown of his head gently. “I dressed it up with worry for you, worry that I was not able to give you what you needed, when what it really was, was a fear that I would have to work to keep up. To keep being worthy. It's a scary thing to be loved when you've been used. But you know that. I don't know how you do it _corazón_. I don't have your optimism.”

He mulled it over a little, his eyes ticking back and forth going over his thoughts, “You want to love me. And so I must ask then - do you?”

“If I say 'yes' would you believe me? Could you?” curious, worried, Lyna held her breath.

“I could try,” his hold loosening on her. “Tell me you love me Lyna.”

That she could do, and she did. “I love you Zevran Arainai. You make me feel weird in here,” tapping her chest, over her heart. “I feel full to bursting. And it makes my head hurt, like my mind is a room with several brontos in it, raging around, trying to get my attention. All this time I've ignored them. Now I can't. And I don't want to anymore – I don't think I can even try to want to.”

He was staring at her in disbelieving awe, “You love me?”

“Yes,” nodding hoping he could summon the trust to believe her.

“You _truly_ love me?” hand moving to cup her cheek. “You love me, you want a future?”

“Only one with you in it, yes,” holding his gaze, propped up awkwardly on him, rubbing her cheek against his calloused palm.

Zevran's mouth twitched, “Good. I do not think it would be possible for me to continue to breathe without you.”

Lyna didn't ask if he loved her – Zevran needed no words to tell her that. After all he had been saying it every day for almost as long as he had known her. Now all Lyna wanted to do was prove to him that she wasn't going anywhere, that she _did_ love him and would for the rest of her life.

“May I show you now?” desiring nothing so much as to be as close to him as she could be.

He nodded his assent, hands slipping down her shoulders to cup her buttocks, “Make love to me _amora_. Steal my breath away, show me this love you speak of.”

Scooting down his body with alacrity, Lyna blazed a trail of lips over him. Never once did she relinquish her hold on his eyes with hers, gazing up at him through the fall of her hair. Pressing his legs open with her hands, Lyna lapped at his sac, then up the base of his prick and back down. Zevran fisted his hands in the pillow under his head, holding himself still for her, and Lyna could only continue laying open mouthed sucking kisses to his length. Taking the head of his manhood into her mouth, pushing at his foreskin with her tongue so she could circle the tip, eliciting a hearty groan for the action. His eyes were heavily lidded, face becoming flushed quickly, even while Lyna ran the backs of her hands on the underside of his thighs and buttocks.

Taking her time, Lyna sucked before pulling more of him into her mouth, shielding him from her teeth with her lips. Swallowing around his thickness, Lyna tickled the area behind his scrotum with fingertips until the Antivan hissed quietly, baring his pearly white teeth at her, legs parting further in invitation. Releasing his sex long enough to moisten her finger, Lyna returned to his cock as she stroked the ring of his muscles that she felt flexing and relaxing. Gradually she sank her finger into him, feeling for that almond shaped bundle and stroking it in time with the sliding of her lips up and down his length. 

It didn't take long for her mouth to fill with salt, and for a moment Zevran's eyes fluttered closed, the muscles of his stomach standing in stark relief. Milking him gently with her hand, Lyna released him once more, returning to kissing his stomach, hips and thighs. Zevran sat up, and Lyna burrowed her face into his his chest slipping into his lap, embracing him as she did so. An insistent hand at the back of her head urged Lyna to tip back, and Zevran's mouth was on hers, sharing the lingering taste of his release. 

Shivering as his lips brushed the tip of her ear, “Lay back _amora_ , allow me to grant you the same pleasure.”

Resisting, Lyna leaned away, his fine boned hands pressed into the small of her back, “This isn't about me, but about you. I can wait.” Silencing him with a finger across his lips, “I only want to give to you _corazón_ , as much as you can handle.”

“And what if my pleasure lies with you _amora_? What then, hmm?” mumbling into her shoulder as he bit down, just hard enough to bring the blood to the surface. “You fight me so much in allowing me to taste you, to explore you. Make yourself vulnerable to me Lyna, so that we are equal. Trust me as I trusted you.”

This wasn't what Lyna had planned, but she made herself let go the reservations of old fears and barriers she'd placed between them, “I'll always trust you.”

Rather than lay her down, Zevran pulled her along with him as he lay back, pulling her hips along his chest. Lyna whimpered at the sensation of her sex brushing along his torso, and then he was scooting so that his face was between her thighs, pausing before taking her in his mouth long enough to drag his pillow under his head to prop up on. Hovering on her knees, she caught his wink and the small reassuring smile just as he yanked her so that she fell forward to her hands. She was about to make some comment, but the words were forgotten as his lips met her sex. 

Wet agonizing bliss came as Zevran kissed her entrance the same way he had her mouth earlier. Falling forward to her face as her arms gave out, moaning, Lyna wormed an arm under her to work a hand so she could touch Zevran's head, fingers curling into his hair. Giving into the urging hands on her hips Lyna writhed over his face, letting the sensation of his fire-hot mouth bring to her the brink. Below her, he made a seal of his lips at her opening, sucking as he rocked just the tip of his tongue around her entrance, and Lyna shattered. 

Scrunching her eyes closed, burying her face in the bed, Lyna bit her lip until she tasted copper. Zevran gave her no respite, licking at her repeatedly, and Lyna was whimpering into the mattress, undulating her hips almost as if she wanted to escape but in reality she didn't think she could find the strength or will to do so. Finally he relinquished her, sliding from under her to pull her back into his chest, hands running over her breasts hungrily, teeth latching onto her earlobe.

Mumbling, “Thought I was supposed to be making love to you, not other way around.”

Huffing chuckle, followed by a hard nip to her shoulder, “Perhaps we should make love to each other then, yes?”

Turning in his arms, Lyna pulled his hair into a cloak, letting it slip from her hands in a golden fall, “If that's what you want, _corazón_. I only want to be with you.”

“Glad I am of it,” these words were uttered with reverence, the renewal of his arousal's weight pinned against her hip. 

Stroking his broad shoulders, Lyna spotted the tiniest hint of uncertainty still in his look, “Lay back _querido_ , my heart please?”

With soft touches interspersed heavily with kisses and words of care, Lyna pressed the Antivan to lie back. Wrapping herself around him as she had when rousing him, she took Zevran into her body finally, both of them sighing in unison. Setting a torturous pace that pulled at her center, Lyna framed his face with her hands, making him hold her gaze so that he could look straight into her.

He was the first to fall off the precipice, staring into her eyes without flinching, and Lyna felt such a suffusion of emotion that she knew she was crying as he had all those nights ago in Antiva. Now she knew how he had felt in that moment, that achingly perfect instant of being so close, being enveloped in 'home' and 'safety' and 'belonging'. His name was a broken gasp, her hips churning against his, the gradually softening member still pressed into her sheath along with his spilled seed being the last thing Lyna needed to fly off the cliff and join him.

Slumping, Lyna panted, squeezing her knees against his hips, “ _Te amo corazón_. I'll never run from you again.”

Zevran passed a trembling hand over her cheek, smearing her tears, “ _Amora_ , if you do I will hunt you down to the ends of the world and reclaim you.”

 _“Bueno_ , I would have it no other way,” willing him to know her words as truth.

Finally Zevran smiled, and it was the most beautiful thing Lyna had ever seen, “So, it occurs to me that now would be an appropriate time to give you something...I took it from a Rivaini merchant prince...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Corazon: My heart  
> Querido: beloved (m)  
> Te amo: I love you  
> Bien/Bueno: Good/It is good/I am good
> 
> AN: So, now that this thing is complete, it clocks about thirty thousand and three hundred words. Whew. I think I'm done with Lyna and this Zev, so it's been a fun ride, and as worthwhile I hope for all of you readers, as it was for me. Now perhaps I can focus on some of my other projects, which would be nice. So, Zev offers Lyna his earring, and they go off into the proverbial sunset to live out their days happily ever after. Just ignore the pesky reality of Lyna's Calling etc, as that's just depressing. This is a happy story in the end, where Lyna stops fighting her feelings, and Zev accepts that she loves him and they make a quilt of stars that are made up from their little broken pieces, and their hearts and minds.  
> The total far exceeds the individual chunks that they're made up of, completing each other, and giving rise to further heights of greatness within the other. I like to think that after the business at Amaranthine/Vigil's Keep is done they go back to Antiva, and take over the Guild or at least become a force to be reckoned with inside the Guild. I also like to think that Ignacio in this story helps them out and maybe makes them the 'heirs' to his cells or powerbase etc, as he strikes me as an interesting version of him. Sometimes I hate the Ignacio characters, sometimes I like him. This one served his purposes well, willingly granting some modicum of protection to Zevran if he had been to stay in Antiva without Lyna, so he gets bonus points in my book.  
> Well, that's all folks!  
> So – read, review, or at least enjoy this story if you've read it. Which if you're reading this part that means you've read the story probably.


End file.
